


Like Clockwork

by irisbleufic



Category: Back to the Future (Movies), Back to the Future: The Game
Genre: 1980s, 1986, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Back to the Future, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Bureaucracy, Canon - Video Game, Canon Compliant, Citizen Brown, Citizen Brown AU, Dysfunctional Family, Dystopia, F/F, F/M, Family, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Government Agencies, Idiots in Love, Intersex Character, M/M, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Rebellion, Science Bros, Science Husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-14 23:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8033770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: There's a catch in even the best-oiled machines; the cogs and wheels of Hill Valley are no exception.





	1. Veneer

**Author's Note:**

> All that you really need to know for this particular AU / timeline is that I'm assuming that the dystopian version of Hill Valley seen in "Episode 3: Citizen Brown" from _Back to the Future: The Game_ is straight-up reality. Forget everything else you know about the game and concentrate on that framework as a setting for this story. As per usual, I'll be drawing characters and references over from the Trilogy, and I'll also be making use of OCs, in whatever functions I imagine they'd occupy in this world, that you've seen in some of my other _BTTF_ timelines. I'll release this installment by installment as I write them (don't worry; I know what the whole story looks like), as my schedule's turning out to be more erratic than I'd initially thought. I'll aim to update every few days.

**May 15, 1986**

Frowning, Emmett studied the crisp letter that his P.A. of three years had just set before him.

“It's nothing personal, Your Honor,” said Citizen Wilson (first name, Toni; niece of City Clerk Goldie Wilson, eldest sibling to Junior Brown Brigade Cadets Isadine and Emerson; resident of Sector H). “I'd like to reassure you of that. I didn't know what I wanted to do right when I got out of school, not at first, and I'm grateful you chose me for this position.” She shifted from one patent-leather-pump-clad foot to the other, tightening her folded hands against her smart dress slacks. “In fact, Your Honor, if you hadn't, I wouldn't have figured out I'd like to go into law consultancy,” she added, smiling with nervous pride. “I've been offered a full ride to Strickland College.”

“That's _marvelous_ , Citizen,” Emmett exclaimed, grinning in spite of himself, reaching to offer a congratulatory handshake, which the young woman accepted with unabashed relief. “What extraordinary news!”

“I knew you wouldn't be angry,” Toni confessed, glancing from side to side along the periphery of the erstwhile bell tower's high ceiling, “but Citizen—that is, I mean—” She covered the sides of her mouth, to Emmett's unease, fending off the cameras' sight-lines. “Your wife...”

Emmett sighed heavily, scanning the letter before tucking it inside an empty folder. “As nearly every piece of paperwork that comes into my possession crosses her desk at some point or another,” he said, wryly, taking gentle hold of Toni's hands, prompting her to lower them, “I understand your concern. Please don't trouble yourself with this, Citizen. Leave the consequences with me.”

“May I speak frankly now that I've resigned?” asked Toni, chewing her lip. “Your Honor?”

“Now that I hereby _officially_ accept your resignation,” replied Emmett, “you may.”

“She won't try to slap me with any Demerits, will she?” Toni asked, tone flat and hopeless.

“Edna will certainly _suggest_ it under infraction of WB-805,” said Emmett, wryly, “but rest assured I won't permit her to see it through. You have nothing to fear. I want you to succeed in this more than anything. My father would've been proud if I'd been _half_ as clear-sighted as you!”

“Wait, really? She'd have tried to snag me under Failure to Report to Work?” Toni glanced around the office again, her eyes coming to rest on the silhouettes of Emmett's massive gears ticking away against the stained glass. “Sure looks like you succeeded eventually, Your Honor.”

“There were a few things I would've liked to have tried,” Emmett admitted. “To have seen through. But my calling was here, _this_ ,” he added, patting his desk. “Father and Edna were right.”

Toni's brow wrinkled as she undid her hair clip, letting the fine, elegant braids frame her face.

“Don't let her sit on you, Sir, for God's sake,” she said. “It's never too late to find what you love.”

“I love this town,” said Emmett, tersely, “I love civic order, and I love my wife. Let it suffice.”

“I guess that's something,” Toni replied, saluting him. “Don't be a stranger, now, Your Honor.”

“Don't be absurd,” said Emmett, warmly, rising to see her out. “There'll always be room for you on my docket, no matter what Edna may claim. You have my private surveillance line. Use it.” He grabbed a slip from beneath his bell-jar paperweight and scribbled the permission she'd require.

“I always did kinda like the talking camera thing,” said Toni, waving as she left. “Convenient!”

After returning to his desk and setting the Newton's Cradle to its soothing, repetitive _clack-clack_ , Emmett got down to processing Citizen Wilson's exit paperwork. He'd be damned if Edna would feel the need to dot any extra I's or cross any additional T's on this one. Toni had been his assistant, _his_ supervisee, and he'd done his best to keep her out of the line of fire.

Edna didn't knock. She used her master key and slipped inside, gloved thief of his precious time.

“I detained the Wilson girl on her way out, but it seems you'd granted her exit rights,” she said, skirting Emmett's desk to glide around and rest both hands on his shoulders. “I've been advising you to let her go for _months_ , my dearest. Over time, it became abundantly clear that she was _far_ from the ideal fit she first appeared to be. How wise of you to heed my counsel.”

“She resigned,” said Emmett, placing his final signature along the bottom of the second set-in-triplicate. He handed the whole sheaf back in Edna's direction, tapping her right hand with it.

“Pity she got the last word,” said Edna, with distaste, removing her hands from Emmett so she could latch onto the packet with vindictive resolve. “You always did give her too much free rein.”

“She's not a _horse_ , Edna,” Emmett sighed, rubbing his forehead. “She's a human being, and she's been awarded full funding to attend your late, great father's illustrious institution.”

“I mustn't have paid close enough attention when the board ran its most recent recommendations past me,” said Edna, dismissively. “I trust their decision-making process so long as they follow our rubrics to the letter.” She flipped through the handful of pages Emmett had pulled from Toni's file to include with filing. “No Demerits or any other manner of infraction. I stand corrected; the girl deserves every good thing that may come to her. I caution you to find a replacement _soon_ , Emmett. Your busy schedule and distractible nature make for lack of proper...focus.”

“I won't rush it just because you haven't developed the slightest bit of faith in me after all these years,” replied Emmett, reaching for his ledger. He flipped through the calendar section until he lit upon _MAY 1986_ , ides thereof. He couldn't understand how the month was half over; time, as usual, had gotten away from him. Add to that the slices of it Edna tended to pilfer, and—

“You know it wounds me to hear you say such things,” she said, aggrieved. “My only concern is for your well-being. The health of this municipality depends on it. Shall we discuss recruitment?”

Utterly averse to the topic at hand, Emmett let his eyes drift to the end of the month. “Graduation at Hill Valley High is coming up in two weeks' time,” he said. “Friday, May 30th. They'll want me to give a brief speech, of course, just like they do every year. Perhaps I ought to encourage graduating seniors to apply? Citizen Wilson was fresh out of school. Motivated. In need of career guidance.”

Edna leaned far enough over Emmett's shoulder to reveal, in profile, her grimace of distaste.

“With hooligans like that multiple-Demerit Parker girl and her soup-sloshing paramour populating the class,” she said thinly, “may I suggest limiting your applicant pool to Honors Students only?”

“That's rather unfair,” Emmett protested. “Wilson hadn't achieved Honors, and look at her now!”

“Better yet,” Edna continued, “limit applications strictly to Honors Students who are also Cadets.”

“Preposterous!” Emmett exclaimed, shoving his chair back so she'd have to jump aside. “That would cut the potential applicant pool from forty or fifty students down to...” He did some quick math, and it wasn't exactly encouraging. “Ten or fifteen at _most_. And we all know—”

“That if the McFly boy applies, yes, of course, nobody else will want to,” said Edna, cajolingly. “That's the entire _point_ of this exercise, darling. Think of how much time you'll save!”

“For once, I'm more interested in giving every graduate a shot than I am in saving time,” Emmett muttered, averting his gaze. The _tick-tick_ of gears consoled him. “Edna, _please_.”

“I'll draw up the advertisement this evening so you won't have to trouble yourself with it,” she said, patting Emmett's cheek, clutching Toni's paperwork to her chest. “And you leave this mess to me.”

“Fine,” Emmett seethed, flopping back down in his chair while she saw herself out. “But you'd better make it sound encouraging,” he insisted. “ _Supportive_. I want to see at least three quarters of those Honors Cadets in the applicant pool, or we'll scrap it and start the search again.”

“Can I expect you home tonight?” asked Edna, turning with one hand poised on the open door.

“No,” Emmett said, halting the Cradle's motion “I'll stay in my apartment here, or I'll sneak into one of the spare bedrooms if I do decide to leave work. I have too much on my mind. I'm sorry.”

“Not that it'd be much of a change these past fifteen or so years,” said Edna, caustically, and left.

Emmett stared at the calendar for a long while after her departure, circling May 22nd in blue ink.

“Voice memo, Edna,” he said; the recorder on his desk clicked to life. “Applications shall be due...”

 

**May 21, 1986**

Martin got his locker open on the third try. It didn't help that he had to keep changing his combination, what with Needles and the rest of those losers constantly hovering, memorizing whatever his current one happened to be, and messing with his things when he wasn't around.

They'd even sent Jennifer to get the digits from him, once, during the three weeks or so he'd supposedly dated her, but he knew as well as anyone else she'd only invited him along to a couple of Leech and the Whooshbags concerts because she pitied him. Anyway, she'd gotten what she wanted out of the deal, which was to make Leech jealous enough to finally ask her out.

“Hey, McFly!” said a young voice behind Martin, startling him out of his momentary self-pity. It was just high-pitched enough to make him afraid Jen was actually behind him, but catching sight of the actual owner made him exhale in relief. “Seriously, why the long face?” asked Tiff Tannen, clutching a stack of heavy textbooks to her chest. “Day's done. Want me to walk you home?”

“Hey, Citizen,” sighed Martin, winking at her. “I'd appreciate that. The guys have been riding me hard lately,” he admitted, gathering what he needed, shoving it into his worn burgundy Eastpak.

“I swear those fuckin' lunatics haven't got anything better to do,” muttered Tiff under her breath, slamming Martin's locker shut for him, scrambling the dial to make sure it was secure.

“Demerit, Tannen!” barked Principal Strickland, hovering behind her like he'd been there all along.

“On what _goddamn_ grounds?” demanded Tiff, smugly, before Martin could step in defend her.

“Civic Ordinance 181-F,” said Strickland, handing her the slip. “Swearing in Public, which I thought you would've known better than anyone, what with your old man having recently gotten himself a one-way ticket to CP. You're all the same, Citizen. Slackers, every one of you!”

“Citizen Strickland,” said Martin, deferentially, hating that keeping up some semblance of behavior that was half-genuine, half-act left his stomach in knots. “It's my fault. I should've issued a Cadet Reprimand. That would've saved some of your slip quota for, y'know, _genuine_ —”

“Excellent thinking, McFly,” said Strickland, swiping the slip back out of Tiff's hand. He gestured from his eyes to hers, and then tapped her on the nose with the paper. “I've got my eye on you.”

“Motherfucking _creep_ ,” Tiff whispered once Strickland was out of earshot. “So, where's my Reprimand?”

“I'm not gonna give you one,” Martin sighed, uncomfortably rubbing the back of his neck, “but don't let him hear you like that, for crying out loud. I can't save your—” he lowered his voice “—ass every time.”

“Here's the thing I love about you, Citizen,” said Tiff, slinging a companionable arm around his neck as they continued down the crowded corridor. “You only _seem_ like a goody-goody.”

“Uh, actually, _no_ ,” said Martin, grinning at her as they approached the exit. “Compared to more than half this school's population, maybe more than half this _town's_ population, I'm as big a square as they come. Even Dave and Linda agreed on that before they got out of Dodge.”

“Do they ever write home?” Tiff asked, gallantly holding the door for Martin. “Do you miss 'em?”

“Yeah, I do,” Martin sighed. “They seem to be doing pretty well in Fairbanks, though. Linda snagged this job in a boutique, and Dave's been working admin for some accounting firm. They share an apartment, but they're hoping to find their own soon. I guess Linda's got a boyfriend.”

“Livin' the dream,” Tiff sighed, hefting her books in both arms. “Oh _shit_. Twelve o'clock!”

Martin didn't have time to react. Needles blocked his and Tiff's path, with Leech and Jen flanking.

“Well, if it isn't Geekzilla and Future CP Zombie, Junior,” said Needles, smirking at both of them.

“Shut the hell up,” Tiff snarled, hurling her books at him. “That's not what Citizen Plus _does_!”

“Sure it is,” cooed Jen, removing her headphones. “Just ask His Dorkiness here. He'll tell you.”

Martin swallowed. “Listen, I'm sure this is all a misunderstanding. Citizen Plus is just...” He faltered, because the truth was he didn't know anything more about it than was contained in the brochures that Biff, admittedly one of the first to be enrolled, had been handing out downtown.

“Just a detention program where they slap this creepy mind-control band on your wrist and suck out your _braaains_ ,” Leech moaned, doing his best zombie impression, which wasn't that great.

“Citizen Plus is just an intensive counseling and reform program,” said Martin, putting on his most authoritative air. It usually worked at Junior Brown Brigade meetings, so why not with these jerks?

Needles kicked Tiff's textbooks off the toes of his boots and glared at Martin. “Oh yeah? Prove it.”

“What evidence do you need, besides what's standing in front of you?” Tiff challenged, collecting her armful of creased spines and bent-up pages. “They come out the other end like Martin here.”

“Is that how your dad's coming out so far?” asked Jen, cruelly, toying with her headphones. “More of him brown—or should I say _Brown_ , capital B—than just the tip of his nose?”

“He doesn't scare Mom anymore,” said Tiff. “He hasn't shouted at me and my brothers in a while.”

For a moment, Jen regarded Tiff with something that looked like genuine concern, but her eyes hardened. She glanced at Leech, who was tapping the handle of his guitar-case impatiently.

“Let's get outta here, _Citizens_ ,” she said, indicating that Needles and Leech should follow her. “I've got a killer place in mind for my next magnum opus. Maybe I'll let you help me paint.”

“It's gotta beat interrogating these freakazoids about somethin' they don't know nothin' about,” Needles agreed, giving Martin and Tiff the side-eye. “Later, squares! Better get home before Dame Edna's goons do their rounds. You wouldn't wanna get caught out after curfew, would ya?”

“Whatever,” Martin muttered under his breath, watching them go. “At least _we're_ both wearing ID. Too bad it's only Wednesday. They're not in uniform. They'd all get picked up under—”

“Polo-Shirt Thursday, Civic Ordinance 9-EEE, we _know_ ,” Tiff groaned. “Sometimes, dude, they've really got a point about you. Do you actively sit down and memorize that crap, or does it just, like, I dunno—come naturally?” she asked, pretending to check Martin's pupils.

“I'm fine,” Martin insisted, swatting her off. “Jeez, I don't...I don't give it much thought, all right?”

“I mean, your dad's a real egghead and your mom's kinda devious, so I guess you just got smarts.”

“I want to be successful, Tiff,” Martin sighed, starting down the sidewalk. “That's all. I want to make a name for myself, make a difference in the world. I want to make my family proud.”

Tiff ribbed him as they walked along. “Yeah, and you wanna make Citizen Brown proud, never mind that you've only interacted with him at maybe one in every three or four Brigade meetings.”

“Hey, listen,” Martin replied, slinging an arm around Tiff's neck, ruffling her chin-length, fly-away curly hair, “I've had a handful of _really_ enlightening conversations with him. There's this kind of...I can't explain it. Underneath that stern exterior you see in all the pictures, he's got this, this...genuineness, this warmth. He's smart, sure, but he's also brilliant. And _funny_.”

“Dude, this man-crush thing's gotta stop,” Tiff sighed. “Because I found out the hard way where _this_ category of forbidden fruit gets you, remember? That kiss in the gym was worth...476-D, bumped up to fifty Demerits? I'm lucky my _mom_ didn't beat the shit out of me.”

“Public Displays of Affection are pointless,” Martin said, shrugging. “You can do that stuff in private, can't you? At least it wasn't because you kissed a girl. It was because you did it in public and used enough tongue they could've observed the whole thing from as far away as the moon.”

“True, true,” Tiff allowed, hefting her books with a displeased grunt. “And I guess Citizen Brown isn't likely to let you get close enough to kiss him any time soon. Or, in fact, _ever_.”

“I'm not sure where you've gotten this idea my mind's in the gutter,” Martin said. “I _admire_ him, that's all. I want to talk with him more, get some insight into his ideas. Think of all I'd learn!”

“More than half those ideas ain't his, Citizen,” Tiff grumbled. “This is my stop. See ya tomorrow?”

“You bet, Citizen,” replied Martin, fondly, clapping her on the back. “If you get any other leads—”

“On that escaped stray, yeah yeah,” said Tiff, waving as she dashed up the front steps of her family's modest brick home. “I'll let you know. Dad says he's seen it around, too. Says it's a shame we can't take it in.” Her face fell, but she composed herself quickly. “Dad really misses his pack of mangy mutts. Do you think they're _all_ in the Courthouse kennel? I kinda miss them, too.”

Martin felt his stomach twist, because he actually knew the answer to this one. Most dogs taken into custody weren't held longer than a month. If municipal staff had no success rehoming them in Fairbanks or other nearby communities, Hill Valley ordinances dictated that they be put down.

“Might be,” Martin said. “You never know. But it's more likely they've been adopted by now.”

“I hope they're chewing up some fancy houses in Hollywood,” Tiff sighed. “G'night, McFly.”

“Good night, Tiff,” Martin said, watching the door close before he continued to Sector L.

The scene waiting for him at home wasn't exactly a peaceful one, and it was kind of ironic that he'd left Tiff on her own doorstep only to find her father having a fraught exchange with _his_ mother in the McFly household driveway. His mother's vehicle sported a smashed right headlight, and the rest of the front was pretty banged up. Martin couldn't help but gawk at it.

“I'm so, _so_ sorry, Mrs. McFly!” Biff pleaded. “I swear I didn't see you there, so you must've been in my blind spot. It's just that, uh, with Citizen Plus and all, I've had so much on my mind—”

“See, George?” Lorraine shouted, loudly enough for George, seated in the garage at his console before an impressive bank of monitors, to hear. “I told you that CP nonsense is no good! It's driving people to distraction, that's what, giving them more to worry about than they've already—”

“What, Lorraine?” George demanded, removing his headset. “Sorry, but I don't think I caught—”

“Hi, Martin!” said Biff, eagerly, interrupting the impending argument. “How was school today?”

“All right,” Martin said, tugging at his backpack straps. “I got an A on last week's Latin quiz.”

“How's my firecracker of a daughter doin', huh?” Biff asked. “That kid thinks the world of you.”

“I just left her off at home,” Martin replied. “You might wanna go see her. She's kinda worried.”

“Dunno what she's got to worry about, but, like I said...” Biff sighed and glanced at Lorraine. “Mrs. McFly, I really _am_ sorry. I'll send my insurance information first thing tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Citizen Tannen,” said Lorraine, kindly, but the underlying sarcasm wasn't lost on Martin. When it came to maintaining just enough of a veneer to please most people, he'd learned from the best. “Please give your best to...oh, heck with it. Tell Jo and the kids I said hello.”

“I'll do that, Lorraine,” Biff said, waving from the foot of the driveway. “Keep your nose clean there, Martin,” he said with a wink and snap of his fingers. “Say hi to Mr. Nosy for me.”

“I'm listening now!” George shouted after Biff, but it was too late. “Well done on that quiz, son.”

“It wasn't anything too complicated,” Martin said, walking one more circuit of the cart before joining his mother on the front steps. “Jeez, that looks pretty bad,” he sighed. “What'll we do?”

“Get it fixed once I've got Biff's information,” Lorraine sighed, hands on hips. “It'll be in the shop for a few days, so you'll have to use your bike to get to and from Cadet meetings or whatever else.”

“Brown Brigade meetings,” Martin corrected her, yawning. “Cadets make _up_ the Brigade.”

“Sweetheart, you must be starving,” Lorraine said, taking Martin's hand. “Come help with dinner?”

“Give a shout when it's ready!” George called after both of them. “I have to review this footage!”

“Oh, Marty,” sighed Lorraine, once it was just the two of them in the kitchen. “I can't stand this.”

“I know, Ma,” Martin sighed, knowing she must be upset, to have called him by his childhood nickname without thinking. “You're worried Dad's gonna get hauled into CP if he's not careful.”

“Those tapes of his,” muttered Lorraine, darkly, reaching for the nearest cupboard. She rummaged in it for a few minutes, drawing out a matte-finish metallic pink flask. “They're too dangerous.”

Martin watched her take a long swig of vodka, and then took the flask away from her. He sniffed it, making a face, holding it out for her to examine. “Does Dad even know you've relapsed?”

“No, and he can't,” Lorraine sighed, heading for the refrigerator, “so please, please don't tell him.”

Martin turned his back on her, considering the flask, and, while she rummaged, took a brief swig.

Over dinner, which, quantity-wise, was down a third from last week's rations (Martin had been bribed with extra helpings one too many times in exchange for house-work, and he felt guilty about letting that happen), George seemed obnoxiously cheerful. Whatever he was finding on those covert reels, it must've been fairly scandalous. He'd always been something of a voyeur, and, Martin supposed, who could blame him?

Writers tended to find inspiration in unusual places, surveillance footage included.

“And anyway, there's something I wanted to show you,” he said, rising from the table, box of peanut brittle in hand like a security blanket. “This was shoved in the mailbox today by one of those special-errand Officers they only send around when Edna's got something up her derrière.”

Martin studied the flyer, which was as sharply designed as any other piece of correspondence to emerge from the Courthouse. He almost couldn't believe what he was reading; who in their right _mind_ would abandon such a coveted position? Honors Student _and_ Cadet standing? 

“How about that?” George asked, resuming his seat, crunching on the candy. “You tick every box! Just think,” he continued, leaning closer to Martin, “if you were on the _inside_ , maybe you'd be able to convince somebody to take a look at what I've been gathering all these months.”

“You will _not_ risk our son's future on some—some crackpot _scheme_ , George!” Lorraine scolded, snatching the flyer out of Martin's hand. She looked it over, frowning and nodding by turns. “You should apply if you want to, sweetheart, but just think of that scholarship you'll be awarded at graduation. If you give it up, just think how that would look on your record.”

“Says who I'd have to give it up?” asked Martin, guiltily, but he knew the answer to that as well as his mother, and he honestly didn't _care_. “Maybe I could negotiate a summer internship.”

“Something tells me that's not what Edna has in mind,” Lorraine sighed, handing back the flyer, returning to the kitchen while George picked at his meat loaf and reached for the television remote.

Martin heard the cupboard door creak. He sighed, mentally cataloguing what he'd need to submit.


	2. On the Inside

**June 3, 1986**

“Those are noble aspirations indeed, Citizen Caruthers,” Emmett told the young woman standing before his desk (first name, Annaliese; great-niece of SoupMo’ founder Louis Caruthers; resident of Sector N). “And how would this employment opportunity assist you in achieving those ends?”

“In the long run,” said Annaliese, perfectly composed, “it would equip me with both the organizational and the authoritarian skills necessary to successfully lead my family’s restaurant chain into the twenty-first century, Your Honor.” She gave him a serene, dazzling smile.

“Authoritarian,” echoed Emmett, troubled. “I see,” he continued, thinking that Annaliese’s ambitious approach was just the sort of thing Edna liked to hear. “Why _else_ should I take you on for this position? Any closing statement?”

“Just that I would be honored to serve in this capacity, Sir,” replied Annaliese. “ _Truly_.”

Emmett scribbled a few more notes in her file, hoping she’d take that as a favorable sign. In reality, what he’d scribbled was _DO NOT ENGAGE AT ALL COSTS_. “That will be all. The Junior Brown Brigade, as well as your community, thanks you for your service. I’ll be in touch.”

“Thanks, Your Honor,” said Annaliese, breathlessly, turning to dash toward the door, where Goldie Wilson was waiting to see her out. Once the girl had received her exit permission from the Clerk, he closed the door and dusted off his pristine jacket, fixing Emmett with a knowing look.

“That’s a keen one,” said Goldie, shaking his head. “ _Too_ keen, if you take my meaning.”

“Oh, I take it all right,” said Emmett, glancing at his clipboard. “Who’s up? Have they arrived?”

Goldie chuckled, nodding. “Yes, Your Honor,” he replied. “The McFly boy’s been here an hour.”

“Great Scott,” Emmett sighed. “Of _course_ he has. You can’t fault him for enthusiasm.”

“Shall I send him through, or are you still taking notes on that blonde terror?” Goldie asked.

Emmett lifted Annaliese’s application high, and then tossed it in the recycling bin next to his desk.

“Send in Citizen McFly at your convenience,” he said, dusting off his hands. “I’m prepared.”

“I’ll be relieved to shift him along,” Goldie replied, leaving. “Kid looks about ready to cry.”

Emmett fiddled restlessly with several of the items on his desk—the bell-jar, a stack of unfiled Demerits, a recently-emptied picture frame—until he heard the hinge swing open. He looked up, not quite prepared for the sight that met his gaze.

Citizen McFly, with his back to Emmett, was conscientiously closing the door. He turned, catching Emmett’s eye, and then, freckled cheeks coloring slightly, glanced away. “Nice place you’ve got here, _ah_ —Your Honor,” he said, swallowing hard. “I’ve never been…”

“This far inside the Courthouse?” asked Emmett, smiling at him kindly. There was no putting his finger on exactly why he’d always had a soft spot for this Cadet, but he’d realized, to his surprise, that it actually had little to do with the young man’s exemplary conduct. “No, I expect not.”

“I mean, the annual Brigade Picnic out on the square is fantastic, don’t get me wrong,” said Citizen McFly, sticking his restless hands in his pockets, a move that Edna would’ve counted against him, but which Emmett found curiously charming. “But it just doesn’t hold a candle to _this_.”

Emmett watched with fascination as the young man approached his desk. 

McFly reached as if to touch the _FIRST CITIZEN E.L. BROWN_ name-plate, but abruptly shoved his hand back in his pocket. He opted instead for removing his other hand—his right, presumably dominant—before using thumb and forefinger to delicately take hold of one of the Newton’s Cradle’s end-orbs, setting the mechanism in motion. McFly’s eyes lit up when the orb on the opposite end swung outward.

“I’ve seen those things on television and read about them in science textbooks,” the McFly explained, hands now folded in front of him, as if he’d just remembered that this was, in fact, an interview of reasonable significance. “I guess it’s neat to see you have one. It really works, huh?”

Clearing his throat, deciding it might be time to strike a measure of gravity into the proceedings, Emmett ignored the question and took up the young man’s file. “Citizen Martin Seamus McFly,” he read aloud, watching his subject snap to attention. “Son of George McFly and Lorraine Baines McFly, youngest sibling to the lately-relocated David and Linda. Winner of the Courthouse Challenge Deportment Award, President of the Junior Brown Brigade, and Brown Cadet of the Month for three months running.” Emmett raised his eyebrows, snapping the file shut. “Honors Student, Recipient of a full-ride scholarship to Strickland College. Resident of Sector L.”

“That’s, uh…” Martin fidgeted, the color in his cheeks deepening. “Yeah. That’d be me.”

“A most impressive resumé,” Emmett told him. “It tells me so much about the scope of your abilities and the strength of your moral fiber that I hardly see any point in this exercise,” he admitted, slapping the file down lightly on his desk. “Why _else_ should I hire you, Citizen?”

“About the, ah, the scholarship, Your Honor,” Martin stammered. “I realize I shouldn't be sabotaging my chances here, but I thought you’d consider it a problem? I can’t very well work for you full time if I’m starting college in the fall.”

Emmett inclined his head, not quite a nod. “I could be persuaded to come to an arrangement for the right candidate,” he confessed, “and I suspect that’s exactly what you may be. But you’ll have to persuade me on another front before I can make any pronouncements one way or the other.”

“What front is _that_?” asked Martin, perplexed. “You just read my whole life like a book.”

“What are your hobbies?” Emmett asked brightly, tapping his temple, rising from his seat so as to better approach Martin. “What inspires your imagination? And here's an unorthodox question: what do you find _fun_?”

“Fun?” Martin echoed, his expression suggesting a state of mild shock. “Well, I…” He took a deep breath, his blue eyes hopeful. “I love to read. Just about anything, in _any_ genre, that I can get my hands on.”

“Reading is a vital pursuit for sharp minds such as yours,” said Emmett, approvingly. “Continue.”

Martin relaxed into _precisely_ the disarming smile of which Emmett knew him to be capable.

“I feel ridiculous telling this to you of all people, _but_ —I love music. It’s—I mean, aside from my academics and my civic duties, of course—it’s my life. I tried playing electric guitar for a while, but I wasn’t very good. At least that’s what my parents said, and they’ve both got a decent ear. I picked up ukulele and classical guitar instead. Those have gone better; I’m competent.”

“With hands as precise as yours, I’d be willing to guess you surpass competency,” said Emmett, indicating Martin’s fingertips where they rested on the edge of his desk. “Stringed instruments require high levels of dexterity, of which you show promising signs. Typing speed?”

“About a hundred words a minute at my best, eighty to ninety on average,” said Martin. “Why?”

“There’s a typing component to this position,” Emmett explained. “Transcribing my dictations.”

“Of course, of course,” muttered Martin, under his breath. “That’s the definition of being a P.A.”

“I feel ridiculous telling this to _you_ of all people,” said Emmett, deciding an early demonstration of reciprocal trust was just the thing he needed at this juncture, “but I dabbled in musicianship for while myself. I played jazz saxophone from high school through college.”

“Get out of town!” Martin exclaimed, and then, reddening again, cleared his throat. “I, _ah_ —what I meant to say was, I love jazz. Like, that’s social _suicide_ if you say it at school, but…” He shrugged, turning his attention back to the Cradle, halting it on first try. “It’s true.”

“Any favorite songs?” Emmett asked, before he quite knew what he was saying. To hell with it; he might as well enjoy himself. He shoved the stack of Demerits aside and took a seat on the edge of his desk, curious. “Maybe from my time?”

“Whatever that means,” said Martin, grinning, “seeing as jazz is pretty time _less_.” He chewed his lip, staring at the ceiling, fingers in subtle counting motion. “Bessie Smith’s _Down-Hearted Blues_ , Billy Strayhorn’s _Take the A Train_ , that _Bei Mir Bist Du Schön_ recording by the Andrews Sisters, _uh_ —” He glanced at Emmett. “Some Bing Crosby here and there, even if people argue over whether he counts as jazz. Grandma Syl—Citizen Sylvia Miskin McFly—really loves his stuff. She was a lounge singer back in the day.”

“A man after my own heart!” Emmett exclaimed, shaking an all-too-startled Martin’s hand. “And as for your charming grandmother, I know _all_ about her. I even saw her sing a few times in a speakeasy my wife helped to shut down.”

“You’d have seen her in the late thirties, huh?” sighed Martin, wistful. “When she was young.”

“She’s older than I am by a stretch, and that’s saying something,” said Emmett, self-deprecatingly, astonished to find that he hadn’t let go of Martin’s hand, and that Martin hadn’t dislodged himself from Emmett’s grasp. Apologetically, Emmett let go of Martin, clearing his throat. “I’m obliged to test your Civic Ordinance knowledge to at least a _minimal_ degree, you understand. One of the most significant tasks falling to this post, I’m afraid, is the filing of Demerit slips. Even mediocre memory for classification codes would prove an advantage.”

“Sure, I expected as much,” admitted Martin, tucking his hands back in his pockets. “Fire away.”

Emmett nodded approvingly, choosing the first one that came to mind. “55-C pertains to…?”

“Defacement Of and/or Trespassing On Municipal Property,” said Martin, promptly. “Officer Parker still writes up my classmates for graffiti under that one, his own daughter included, even though you downgraded defacement to a two-Demerit offense. That Teflon-like polymer coating you put on all civic buildings, by the way? Total stroke of _genius_. I bet it makes your Officers' clean-up efforts a cinch.”

“Not Wearing Your ID Badge?” Emmett fired back, scarcely missing a beat, although maintaining strict composure was difficult in the face of such impressive knowledge and genuine praise. The young man was even more disarming than Emmett had remembered.

“Wait, what?” said Martin, startled, clutching at the laminated card clipped to his collar. “I—”

“Which _Ordinance_ , Citizen,” Emmett clarified, chuckling. “You’re in the clear.”

“Ah, right,” Martin mumbled, embarrassed. “That one’s simple, Your Honor. WB-714.”

Emmett was going to have to trot out some of the more severe ones in order to challenge this particular Cadet. “181-B?” he asked, recalling only too late that Martin’s mother was an offender. Perhaps Edna's persistent accusations that he was insensitive were accurate.

“Possession of Alcohol,” said Martin, dully, as if it were a pain he'd learned to ignore. “Doesn’t matter whether you’re drinking it or not. In this case, possession really _is_ nine-tenths of the law. You might as well be guzzling the stuff.”

 _I’m sorry_ , Emmett thought, but he was too uneasy to give it voice. “Swearing in Public?”

“181-F,” replied Martin, emboldened, leaning against the desk such that he was nearly perched next to Emmett. “I have a close friend who struggles with that one even though it’s more lenient than your usual gamut of, uh, insightful and necessary social guidelines.”

“Not mine, as it happens. I talked our esteemed Citizen Edna down from Swearing, _period_ , on that count,” explained Emmett, wryly, smiling in hopes of easing Martin's suddenly anxious demeanor. “There's not a hell of a lot you can do about what people say in the privacy of their own homes and offices, is there, even if you’re sometimes listening in?”

“Your Honor?” Martin gulped, his features pulled taut. “I, uh, didn't know the surveillance—”

“Young man, you have _nothing_ to fear,” said Emmett, reassuringly, desperate to defuse the time-bomb that was somehow out-ticking all his beloved clockwork. “And, please,” he continued, realizing the solution was simpler than he had thought, “there's no need for honorifics here. I'd like this conversation to be much less...formal from here on out. Please, call me Doctor Brown.”

“Doctor?” Martin echoed. “I mean, I read somewhere that you got an undergraduate degree in Political Science and an M.A. in Law, but I hadn't realized you went for a doctorate, too. Where did you even find the time to do that?”

“It took _years_ ,” Emmett admitted, wondering why he was so willing to open himself to this young Cadet, with whom he'd had perhaps five or six conversations, _counting_ this one, in the past decade. “I did it in secret, via night courses and labs and correspondence. Even Ed—that is, even my dear wife—doesn't know about it. She's never approved of my scientific interests.”

Martin seemed emboldened by that, which was encouraging. “With all due respect, Your—Sir— _Doc_ —” The young man stammered, but he forged on, possessed of new purpose. “There's a _lot_ she doesn't know.”

Emmett raised his eyebrows, more intrigued than he should be. “Such as?” When Martin's eyes widened, Emmett reached instinctively toward him. “Please rest assured that this is _not_ an interrogation. You'll find me far more sympathetic than you would expect.”

“Looks like you're not the only one who uses her first name in that tone of voice,” Martin admitted. “It's the most prevalent form of disrespect against her, Doctor—” He frowned. “That's still way too formal, if we're speaking honestly here. Would it be offensive if I called you...”

“There was something you said before,” Emmett prompted. “Doc, was it? Less of a mouthful.”

“Doc,” Martin said, breathing a little easier. “First Citizen Doc Brown. Has a nice ring to it.”

“I was always a fan of those old Looney Tunes,” said Emmett. “Bugs Bunny. What's up, Doc?”

“Haven't seen those in ages,” Martin lamented. “So Edna deemed _them_ subversive, too?”

“If we're speaking honestly here, then yes,” Emmett sighed. “There isn't much she _hasn't_.”

Martin nodded, loosely tapping his fist against the edge of the desk. “That’s pretty heavy, Doc.”

“Since this is an arrangement in which I’d expect us to communicate as equals, and seeing as you’ve more than proved you’re my equal and _then_ some,” said Emmett, “how should I address _you_?”

“Citizen McFly is fine,” said Martin, too quickly. “Martin works, too. Everyone calls me that.”

“Something tells me you wouldn’t be as happy with those as with something else,” Emmett said.

Martin sighed heavily, as if he’d been found out. “Don’t laugh, but there’s this nickname I’ve had at home for ages. It goes back to when I was a kid, but it’s familiar, y’know? Mom calls me Marty.”

“Then as long as we’re within the bounds of this office,” said Emmett, decisively, “that’s who you are. And, for better or worse, Doc’s who _I_ am. Take care never to use that around Edna.”

Martin pushed off from the desk, staring at him round-eyed. “Doc, d’you mean to tell me that I…?”

Emmett grinned, spreading his arms wide in supplication. “How soon do you think you can start?”

Martin swayed on his feet. “I’ve gotta be dreaming,” he said, and then: “Any time, now graduation’s over.” He rubbed the side of his neck, blushing again. “Enjoyed your speech. It was... _different_ from last year's, somehow.”

“Excellent,” said Emmett, returning to his chair, rifling through the relevant stack on his desk. “What about Thursday next week? That’ll give you a little more time to decompress. You should spend this week with your family.”

Martin frowned slightly, opening his mouth, but he closed it again promptly. “Yeah, okay.”

“What’s wrong?” Emmett asked, proffering a folder full of start-up paperwork. “Too soon?”

“Nah,” said Martin, smiling as if nothing had been amiss. “June twelfth is just _great_.”

 

**June 12, 1986**

Martin studied his reflection, grimacing. Just his luck: first day at work, and it was Polo Shirt Thursday. He didn't mind wearing the same pair of dress slacks he'd worn to the interview, but the orange-and-white polo, no matter how fully he embodied all of the ideals it stood for, had always rubbed him the wrong way. He undid one of his collar buttons, finding the improvement minimal.

“You look so _handsome_!” Lorraine squealed, hugging him from behind. “All grown up.”

“Jesus, Ma,” Martin griped, tugging at her elbows. “Get off me already. It's no big deal. Really.”

“Yeah, but today's your big day for _two_ different reasons, sweetheart, so don't think we won't be celebrating later,” Lorraine admonished, winking at their reflection. “All ready to go? Have you packed a lunch, or should I do it?”

“Ready as can be,” Martin said, clipping his ID in place. “Not looking forward to biking it, though.”

The ride was longer than he remembered it being back when he used to zip around on a skateboard, and it took a lot more physical effort, too. By the time he secured his bike with one of the built-in lock-mechanisms on the bike rack in front of SoupMo' and the Bureau of Discipline, he felt sweaty and unkempt. He caught his reflection in the nearest window, brushing ineffectually at his hair.

“If vanity were an offense, Citizen,” said a familiar, dread-inducing voice behind him, “I'd be writing you up right now.” The voice's owner laughed. “I'm _joking_ , son. Big day? You'd think it was the first day of school instead of a whole week out from graduation!”

“Hi, Officer Parker,” Martin sighed, turning to face Jen's father rather more pink in the face than he would've liked to have been. “Yeah, I start my new job at the Courthouse today. Word gets round, huh?”

“They've had me on the lookout for you,” said Officer Parker. “Report straight to the front gate.”

“Thanks for the pointer,” Martin replied, attempting to keep a straight face. He already knew that.

“Have a great first day, Citizen,” Officer Parker said. “It's clear you've got nothing but a bright future ahead. I, for one, thought that wayward daughter of mine was finally onto something.”

“You too, Citizen,” Martin said, watching him stroll off to resume his beat. “Don't be a stranger.”

At the Courthouse front gate, Martin punched the intercom button without any particular sense of dread. Everyone knew Edna tended to answer it personally, so he'd better just grin and bear it.

“Hill Valley Courthouse. How may I help you, Citizen?” Edna asked, tone as officious as ever.

“I need to see Doc— _er_ , Citizen Brown,” said Martin, cursing his sudden onset of nerves.

“Do you have an appointment?” asked Edna, graciously, not seeming to have noticed his slip-up.

“Yes,” replied Martin, matter-of-factly. “I'm the new P.A. You should have me on the Admit List?”

One of the surveillance cameras overhead moved pointedly in his direction. “Why, Citizen McFly!” Edna cooed over the intercom. “Don't you look _ever_ so dapper! Come in, come in...”

By the time the gate had whirred open to let him pass, Edna had come outside to greet him. She shook Martin's hand with both of her own, less terrifying somehow than the last time he'd seen her in person, which had been the Brigade Picnic last fall. She didn't look much like her brother, Gerald. He supposed there was a terrifying, stately elegance to her. She must've been beautiful once.

“You ought to have stated your name right away,” she said, breathlessly drawing him toward the entrance. “My husband has been looking forward to your commencement of duty all week!”

“I'm glad to hear he's eager to get started,” said Martin, following her over to the same imposing, marble-tiled elevator City Clerk Wilson had shown him into the day of the interview. “So am I.”

“We received your completed starter packet via post,” said Edna, approvingly, as the old-fashioned elevator needle crept upward. “Such remarkable penmanship. Every form in _flawless_ order.”

“Thank you, Citizen,” Martin said, mindful of the expected level of decorum. “I aim for accuracy.”

The elevator stopped one floor short of the top, and Edna indicated Martin should follow her off.

“You'll be starting off your day in my office,” she said crisply. “Disclosure forms, you understand.”

“Of course,” Martin agreed, his stomach sinking. “You're a veritable one-woman HR department.”

“In much the same way that you strive for accuracy, young man,” said Edna, leading him over to her heavy mahogany desk, “I strive for _efficiency_. In matters of record-keeping, the fewer fingers one permits in the pie, as it were,” she explained, pushing him down in the chair opposite her own before taking a seat, “the better. Now, this folder contains a number of documents requiring your undivided attention, your initials in the bottom right of every page, and your signature on the last page of each. Do you have any questions for me at this stage?”

“No, I don't think so,” said Martin, already flipping through pages. “Shouldn't Citizen Brown be present for the signing of these disclosures, too?”

“Our beloved First Citizen spent several hours of this morning indisposed,” said Edna, with something approaching distaste, “as he'd been up burning the candle at both ends again. He ought to be ready for you by the time you've completed this task and I've given you a proper tour.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Martin said, beginning the gargantuan task of initialing. “ _Ma'am_.”

“Dear boy, if we're to be working under the same roof, you _must_ dispense with such formality,” said Edna, patting Martin's cheek in a slightly patronizing manner. “Call me Edna.”

“I, uh,” Martin stammered, mangling one set of initials in surprise. “Then I certainly will. Edna.”

“If there's anything you should require, anything at _all_ ,” Edna continued, folding her hands in front of her on the desk, watching Martin's progress like a hawk. “You simply must come to me.”

“I'm sure Citizen Brown is capable of handling most of my questions,” said Martin, “but—okay.”

“What I need you to understand,” said Edna, with unexpected gentleness, startling Martin into glancing up at her, “is that my husband, in spite of his brilliance, suffers from a highly distractible nature. Elsewise, what need would there have been for your predecessor? Or for _you_?”

“I guess I hadn't thought of that,” Martin said, having made it to the first full signature. “Is it bad?”

“Nothing that prevents him from performing his duties as Mayor and Chief Judge,” Edna reassured him, whisking away the completed packet while he started skimming the next, “but it's sufficient for me to have my...concerns. He suffered from delusions of grandeur when he was your age.”

“I'd say not all of them were delusions,” Martin replied, initialing once more, “given where he is.”

Edna patted his arm, making him twitch. “Delusions of _scientific_ grandeur, Martin—if I may?”

“Sure,” Martin said, shrugging, “That's my name. It's better than hearing Geekzilla all the time.”

“No one would _dare_ call you such a thing within these walls,” said Edna. “Here, you are valued.”

“I haven't even had the chance to prove myself yet,” Martin insisted, “so I hope that will be true.”

“You've already passed the most rigorous tests we demand of our youth,” Edna said. “It is _fact_.”

Martin glanced up at her, signing the final page of the second packet. “Then I'll trust your judgment.”

Thankfully, the initialing and signing of the final packet proceeded in silence. Once Martin had finished, Edna gathered all three packets up, made Martin wait while she ran photocopies, and then placed the originals back in their folder, which she handed to him. The stack of copies, she kept.

“You'll want to present those to Citizen Brown once I've finally handed you off to him,” she explained, indicating that Martin should place them in his backpack. On taking a closer look at it, she wrinkled her nose slightly, picking at the canvas with gloved fingertips. “Very worn, isn't it?”

“I've had it since about ninth grade, so yeah,” Martin agreed. “I'm fond of it, though. It's durable.”

“I'll see what I can do about getting you a proper briefcase,” said Edna, gesturing for him to follow.

Shoving the folder in his bag, Martin trailed after her, dispirited. Instead of the most exciting day of his life, this was so far turning out to be one of the most _tedious_ days ever. Back in the ground-floor entrance hall—much to Martin's frustration, Edna insisted on conducting her tour from the bottom up—they ran into City Clerk Wilson, who looked like he was having about as thrilling a morning as Martin.

Wilson slowed before Edna could, blocking their path to the staircase.

“Good morning, Citizen McFly, Citizen Strickland Brown,” he greeted them. “Today's the day?”

“Good morning to you, Citizen Wilson,” Edna replied. “Indeed. This is your niece's successor.”

“Good morning, Citizen,” said Martin, overjoyed to be interacting with someone who wasn't Edna. “You've caught us in the middle of the grand tour. Is there anything that shouldn't be missed?”

“I'd take our young friend straight to the top if I were you,” the Clerk told Edna. “Get him started.”

“My husband's list of errands can wait,” said Edna, her delivery more curt than it had been all morning. “It's vital that our new colleague learn his way around. We can't have him getting lost.”

“I suppose you're right about that,” said the Clerk, turning back to Martin. “You can call me Goldie, Citizen, and if you need help with anything, anything at _all_ , give me a holler.”

“You can call me Martin,” said Martin, returning Goldie's smile, “and the same goes for you.”

“Yes, well,” said Edna, impatiently, “how very pleasant. Good day to you, Citizen Wilson.”

The next stop on Edna's interminable agenda was the mail room, which was, admittedly, useful knowledge. Martin recognized a few other Cadets amongst the busy, polo-shirted ranks, and some of them waved to him, or even did a double-take to see him there. Martin waved back, smiling weakly. It should have felt like some kind of victory lap, but what he felt, once again, was guilt.

“It'll be useful to have so many of your friends around, won't it?” Edna asked. “Set you at ease.”

“Why do you say that?” Martin asked as they mounted the first staircase. “I'm sure I can manage.”

“You dear thing,” said Edna, pausing, one hand poised on the banister. “I've read your file. Anxious disposition, history of restless sleep, occasionally plagued with night terrors.”

“I, ah,” Martin managed, lagging behind as she pressed on, “didn't know that was in there.”

“We include health and psychological data as we see fit,” Edna explained. “It can be useful.”

“I'm not gonna have a nervous breakdown at work, if that's what you're worried about,” Martin said, tetchily, instantly regretting it. “What I meant to say was—look, I'm not a kid anymore. Today's—”

“An admirable day for you to have assented to start, of course,” Edna cut in. “I couldn't agree more.”

The next few floors were occupied by various offices and departments whose names and functions made Martin's already troubled thoughts positively _spin_. He knew Doc would probably go over all of it again with him, but something about Edna's deliberate choreography felt like a test.

Once the tour was over, it was noontime. Edna treated Martin to a dismal lunch at SoupMo', where Leech served them with subdued, if surly respect. He looked stunned when Edna left a tip.

As they were leaving, the watch-like device on Edna's wrist buzzed loudly, making Martin jump.

“Alas, I shall have to save the rest for another day,” Edna lamented. “It seems he's ready for you.”

 _Thank God_ , Martin thought, feigning disappointment. “Aw, that's too bad. Lead the way.”

Much to Martin's surprise, Edna didn't escort him into Doc's office. She simply hit the buzzer, shook his hand, wished him good luck, and strode away. Martin was alone when the door opened.

“Marty, what a _relief_ ,” said Doc, drawing him inside, looking somewhat less Citizen-like than usual. He wore his polo shirt, but the ever-present white jacket was nowhere in evidence. He peered at Martin through his spectacles, frowning. “I thought she'd never let me see you.”

“Glad to see you, too,” Martin said, clapping Doc on the forearms before Doc's hands fell away from his shoulders. “Your wife means well, but she's got too much of an agenda for anybody's good.”

“I'd been hoping to give you a tour of the office and show you where everything's kept, but you look as if you've already been run a bit ragged,” said Doc, pensively. “It'd be a shame to hand you all that filing. How about we order up some coffee, and you ask me whatever questions you might—”

“Wouldn't that normally be _my job_?” asked Martin, somewhat incredulously. “The coffee?”

“In theory, yes,” said Doc, as if he hadn't given it proper thought. “But not on your first day, surely?”

“Here's a question for you, Doc,” said Martin, cautiously. “Exactly why do you _need_ an assistant? Seems to me things are pretty quiet up here in your realm. There's not even that much that needs filing. Edna seems to enjoy documentation so much that _her_ office is full of it.”

Doc nodded, appearing to briefly chew on his lower lip. “You've started at a low-volume time.”

“Guys like you are busier than God, though,” Martin pointed out. “That's what my dad says.”

“Guys like me suffer from enforced isolation at the hands of controlling spouses,” Doc said dryly, walking toward the stained-glass window with his arms folded behind his back. “Hadn't you noticed?”

“Wait a minute, Doc,” said Martin, stepping up beside him, watching the massive steel gears turn. “Do you mean to tell me she lets you have an assistant just so you'll stay out of her hair?”

“That, and I also suspect it's so I won't get lonely,” Doc said sheepishly, removing one of his gloves before running his index finger absently along the rosy glass. “I may be fiercely independent and enjoy working alone for extended periods, but regular human contact does have its advantages.”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Martin blurted, running both hands through his hair. “Is this even a real job?”

“Given the salary I'm paying you, it had better be,” said Doc, self-deprecatingly. “You'll learn a great deal about governance, I can promise you that. And I'll write you a stellar recommendation for law school or civil service or whatever it is you decide to go into a few years from now.”

“That's...an awfully kind offer, Doc,” said Martin, quietly, “but today's my eighteenth birthday, and I don't even really know what I want to _do_ with my life. I'm good at a lot of things, I know that, but sometimes it worries me that the only thing at which I actually excel is _being_ good.”

Doc turned, then, blinking at Martin in apparent surprise; how he could have overlooked such a crucial detail in Martin's file, Martin had no earthly idea. “Did I hear you correctly?" Doc asked. "It's your _birthday_?”

“Yeah,” Martin replied, scuffing the toe of his loafer against the hardwood floor. “Coincidence.”

“Why didn't you tell me, Marty? I could just as easily have had you start on Monday next week!”

“You seemed so excited about it, is all,” Martin admitted. “You seemed like you...needed a friend.” He took a deep, steadying breath, because he wasn't exactly proud of the next part. “And to be dead honest with you, I kinda need one, too. Nobody really likes me. Except Biff Tannen's oldest.”

“Citizen Tiffany Tannen, otherwise known as Tiff, has a streak of mischief in her a mile wide,” said Doc. “She'll end up like her old man if she isn't careful. You've probably been a stabilizing influence.”

“Don't change the subject, Doc,” Martin sighed, tugging at his collar. “Jeez, this thing itches.”

“There's only one thing to be done,” Doc said, taking off his other glove, strolling back over to the desk, tossing them both down. “And, given the day's more than half over, it doesn't involve filing.”

“Yeah?” asked Martin, curiously, unclipping his ID badge. He set it on the edge of the desk and met Doc's gaze, waiting to see if anything would happen. In just slightly over a week's time, everything he thought he'd known about his lifelong idol had done a complete one-eighty.

“Follow me,” said Doc, beckoning Martin toward a panel in the curvature of the wall that he hadn't noticed on his first visit. “This is, I think, a treat befitting an employee of your rank and station.”

The panel, Martin realized, was a _door_ , and, before he knew it, it had swung inward beneath Doc's touch. The passage into daylight was alarmingly short. They were standing on a vast ledge.

“Uh,” said Martin, uneasily, peering over the edge of the clock tower before letting his awed gaze sweep across the city, “this wouldn't happen to be in contempt of Civic Ordinance 55-C, would it?”

Doc grinned conspiratorially, short hair blown wild by the breeze. “Not if you're with me, it isn't.”


	3. Cautionary Tale

**June 30, 1986**

It was a blissful two and a half weeks, nearly, before Edna turned up unannounced in Emmett's office on a Monday morning with an ominous glint in her eye and a surveillance tape in hand. Marty was forty minutes late, which wasn't like him in the _least_ , so Emmett was on-edge.

“Where's Martin?” Edna demanded, marching right up to Emmett's desk. “Why didn't you send him to answer the door when I knocked?”

“First of all,” Emmett lied, letting his anger lend him some much-needed composure, “I sent Citizen McFly off to get us some late breakfast given that neither of us have eaten. You can hardly expect productivity on an empty stomach. Second of all, you must've knocked with an _awfully_ light touch, because I heard no such thing. From my perspective, you just barged right in like you normally do. Maybe use the wrist device next time?” He indicated his own Citizen Plus prototype. “The paging function is convenient. I've been using it; why haven't _you_?”

“Immaterial,” Edna sniffed, waving the tape in Emmett's face, “given the matter at hand. Before I explain why I'm _most_ perturbed indeed, would you care to explain what's on this cassette?”

Broadly speaking, Emmett could hazard a guess. “Visual evidence of some new, heinous, and outright _subversive_ trend in the general populace that's got to be snuffed out posthaste?”

“ _Hilarious_ ,” said Edna, bitingly, marching over to Emmett's bank of surveillance monitors, popping the cassette in one of the unoccupied player slots. She folded her arms across her chest, turning to glare at Emmett. “For the past fortnight, I've been hearing persistent rumors that you and another party—Martin, no doubt—were spotted out on the clock-tower ledge! There was no small amount of excitement surrounding this zeitgeist, of course, because we actively _encourage_ Citizens to keep an eye out for your silhouette behind the glass. But to permit such an outrageous sighting, and under such dangerously frivolous circumstances?” Edna pursed her lips before Emmett could even speak, turning back to the player with its dormant screen. “I had to substantiate these claims via public surveillance footage, of course; heaven knows some denizens of this town are given to flights of fancy.” She hit the power button on the player, stepping back again. “Voice command, activate. Play twelfth of June, nineteen-hundred and eighty-six, segment beginning at fourteen hours, forty-three minutes.”

The tape whirred obediently ahead to the point Edna had cited, and the static-ridden screen was instantly filled with Edna's so-called incriminating image. The camera's vantage-point was situated at a slight distance, suggesting that perhaps it was one of the units mounted somewhere on the Bureau of Discipline across the way. Emmett and Marty appeared as diminutive, gesturing figures.

“What in Hill Valley's name did you think you were _doing_?” demanded Edna, furiously.

“Giving Martin a tour of my own!” Emmett snapped. “He seemed bored to weariness by the time you were finished with yours, so I figured...” He firmly bit his tongue on _what the hell_. Last time, Edna had stuck a Demerit in his file.

“You figured you'd risk corrupting Hill Valley's finest, most upstanding young mind by breaking one of our strictly-upheld statutes to satisfy your _own_ incurable boredom?” Edna demanded, falling back on one of her favorite marks against him.

Emmett shrugged, toying idly with the Newton's Cradle. “That's your perspective, I suppose.”

“Take care not to break this one,” said Edna, warningly. “You did a fine number on the last bright young thing to occupy this post, and she was only just your first. An experiment, as we agreed. Create another unwarranted free-thinker from amongst your ranks of Cadets, Emmett, and I swear to you there will _not_ be a third opportunity. Once Martin moves on, I'll revise the budget.”

“He'll be returning soon,” said Emmett, choosing to ignore the threat. “Get out of here before he walks in on your unwelcoming invective, and leave us in peace. We have a lot of filing to catch up on!”

“How touching, that you speak of the boy as if he were here,” remarked Edna, tartly, breezing out.

Emmett rose from his desk and walked over to the window, splaying both gloved hands against the glass. Too much of what Edna had said was true, at least from _her_ point of view. He did tend to encourage a greater amount of thinking outside the box than she _ever_ had, and her implication by way of making that threat underlined what they both knew full well: she was in charge, she always had been, and Emmett was, in actuality, little more than a convenient figurehead. There was also the very real and troubling fact that there was never enough—beyond filing and transcribing dictation and running menial errands—for his personal assistant to _do_.

Little wonder, then, that he'd fashioned the role into a mentorship designed to combat Edna's insidious influence one young mind at a time. He hadn't always felt that her methods were toxic or unorthodox, but for the better part of twenty years now, he'd painfully reached said conclusion.

Emmett checked the antique Swiss watch he wore on the opposite wrist from his Citizen Plus device. Marty was forty-five minutes late, and that was even more troubling than Edna's intrusion. Why on _earth_ was he fretting when there was a perfectly direct way to check in on Marty's whereabouts?

Dashing over to the bank of monitors, Emmett extracted the offending cassette and threw it on the floor hard enough for the plastic to shatter. Satisfied, he folded his arms across his chest and faced the top-center monitor, hitting a few buttons on the console. “Dispatch to private line, retain visual input: Citizen George McFly, Sector L, connection 6757,” he instructed.

The feed on the screen was replaced several seconds later by George's comically startled face.

“Your Honor!” he exclaimed, adjusting his headset, dropping the piece of whatever he'd been nibbling on the desk. “What an unexpected pleasure. How's business at the Courthouse?”

“Same old, same old,” said Emmett, returning George's nervous grin. “Forms to sign, a city to run.”

“While I've got you here, if it's not too much trouble, there's something I've been meaning to ask,” George said, shuffling through some ragged papers. “Have you received the most recent batch of tapes I sent over? Uh, I mean—not the usual documentary footage. The...supplementals.”

Emmett sighed, knowing that his answer was bound to disappoint. “Edna says the Review Center didn't find anything of note. Keep it all coming, of course. No material is without potential.”

“I see,” replied George, briefly crestfallen. “Well, I'll just keep on. What can I help you with?”

“Has your son left home for the day?” Emmett asked, attempting to maintain levity so as not to arouse suspicion. “He hasn't yet arrived, although I did mention a few errands that could stand—”

“He hasn't he arrived?” asked George, concerned. “I thought I spotted him nearing the square on one of my feeds a few minutes ago. Maybe he stopped to shoot the breeze with Citizen Wilson?”

“Of course,” said Emmett, his chest flooding with relief. “I hadn't thought of that, but Martin certainly has taken a shine to my colleague downstairs. I'm sure he'll arrive any minute now.”

“Glad to hear it,” George said, picking up his abandoned snack. “I have to say, it's been great to touch base. I think the last time we spoke was, what, six months ago? Take care, Your Honor.”

“I shall,” Emmett replied, suddenly regretful that the exchange had to end. “My best to Lorraine.”

He hit a button on the console, terminating the connection before George's reaction to Emmett's fond closing could come through. He restored the usual feed before returning to his desk, determined to regain composure before Marty's arrival, but the door burst dramatically open.

“Doc,” said Marty, breathlessly, racing across the office at such an alarming speed that he nearly knocked Emmett over on accidental impact. “ _Doc_ ,” he repeated, apologetically, steadying them both with his hands frantic on Emmett's upper arms. “We, ah—would you be up for a field trip? No time to explain, but we might...we might have a problem. I think you should see this.”

“Then it was wise of you to delay en route, and I'm glad you're here now,” Emmett reassured him, gently removing himself from the pleasant warmth of Marty's grasp. “Let's fetch the vehicle.”

“Heavy,” Marty breathed, nodding in agreement. “Your cart's kinda like...a limo version, huh?”

“Entirely enclosed, with a few other bells and whistles of my own devising, yes,” Emmett said.

“I knew you invented stuff in your spare time, but I have to say,” said Marty, trailing after Emmett as they headed in the direction from which he'd just arrived, “I didn't know just how _much_ of the gadgets around here—hell, around the whole _city_ —were entirely your work.”

“I had to put my true passion to use _somehow_ ,” Emmett explained once they were in the corridor, locking his office behind them. “Fortunately, the uses I found were Edna-approved.”

“It might be treason to say so, but I hope you've got some she _wouldn't_ approve of,” Marty remarked. “Otherwise, where's the fun in it? We're headed for the elevator, lower-level garage?”

“Indeed,” said Emmett, gesturing for Marty to proceed ahead of him. “Lead on, Citizen McFly.”

Once they got there, Marty was flabbergasted to find Emmett's keys placed squarely in his palm.

“You're the only one who knows where we're going,” said Emmett, “and your driving record is spotless, so I have no qualms about you taking my usual driver's place for this excursion.”

“Far _out_ ,” said Marty, rushing around to the driver's side. He opened the door, slid inside, and fiddled with the door and console switches until he'd gotten the back open. “Your ride, Doc.”

Emmett spent a tense five minutes fussing with his gloves while Marty drove them with exacting, traffic-law-abiding care to their destination. Given Edna's opaque regulation windows, he could scarcely see where they were going. He let himself breathe properly when they came to a halt.

Marty came around the side and opened Emmett's door for him, helping Emmett step out into daylight as if he were assisting royalty. “We're on that alley behind the Bureau of Discipline.”

“I can see that,” said Emmett, blinking at the garishly spray-painted wall, dumpsters, and other detritus in the filthy, squared-off alcove before him. He made a mental note to order a clean-up team down here to take care of _LEECH AND THE WHOOSHBAGS_ , which had been lovingly re-emblazoned by Officer Parker's offspring. And, sure enough, standing not far off—

“Hi, Your Honor,” said Tiff Tannen, cringing as she held up one end of what looked like a leash. “Know how you handed down that directive to us Cadets through Martin a few weeks ago? Ta-daaah!”

The animal secured to the opposite end barked excitedly, rushing toward Emmett as he approached.

“You little devil,” he said in dismay, dropping to a crouch in order to scratch behind the stray's silky ears. “You had better thank your lucky stars I'm the one Marty's brought out here instead of Edna, yes you _had_.” He tousled the fur atop of the happily panting dog's head.

Meanwhile, Marty and Tiff both looked on in undisguised shock, exchanging puzzled glances.

“You, uh,” Marty began, rubbing his neck as he was wont to do when flustered. “Know this guy?”

“That is _not_ what I expected to happen,” said Tiff. “Guess I owe you five bucks, McFly.”

“If I weren't so glad to see Einstein,” said Emmett, with forced sternness, “I'd be obliged to write you both up under Civic Ordinance 181-E. But, seeing as this instance of Gambling has occurred during voluntary retrieval of Hill Valley's current Public Enemy Number One, I'll let it slide.”

“You gave him a name?” Marty blurted, offering his hand to the inquisitive canine. “Why, Doc?”

“Because you can only have a fellow of such singular verve and personality locked up in the Courthouse dungeon so many times before he becomes something of a fixture. And a friend.”

“Jesus,” said Tiffany, whistling between her teeth. “Bet Edna's gonna have a field day with this.”

“Watch your tongue,” said Emmett, mildly, but his heart wasn't in it. “I won't report this, either.”

“The dog or the impertinence?” Marty asked, grimacing at the thorough licking he'd received.

“Both,” sighed Emmett. “All three.” He turned to Marty, at a loss. “Well, we're in a pickle.”

“You don't wanna lock him back up, do you?” asked Tiff. “Aw _right_! Can I keep him?”

“Inasmuch as I'd like nothing more than to tell you that you can,” Emmett said, easing the leash from Tiff's hand, “if I permitted another creature such as this to reside under your father's roof, he'd face no end of trouble at Edna's hands. The first passel of mutts she confiscated was enough.”

“What kind of trouble?” Marty asked, looking as if he instantly regretted asking. “Citizen Plus?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Emmett confirmed. “I don't want to hazard a guess as to what that might—”

“Wait a minute,” said Marty, setting a hand on Emmett's wrist. “Hazard a guess? Don't you...”

“Oh my God,” Tiff murmured, her eyes narrowing, advancing on Emmett. “Are the rumors true?”

“What rumors?” asked Emmett, involuntarily backing up a few steps, dragging a whimpering Einstein with him. “Tread lightly with regard to your next actions, Citizen Tannen.”

Tiff rolled her eyes. “If you don't know all the shit people say about you, then what use is all the surveillance? Your Honor, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it's common knowledge you don't know diddly squat about your own Citizenship Initiative. It's _allll_ Edna.”

Emmett gawped at her, flabbergasted, but there was absolutely no logical response to the truth.

“Okay, Doc,” said Marty, his glance hardening almost as much as Tiff's. “Time to come clean.”

“I agreed to let Edna pilot the program,” said Emmett, defeated, easing his choked-up grasp on the leash. “It was her brain-child anyway. All I did was sign off on the paperwork. A few months along, what with some of the memory-lapses and disorientation your father had been reporting as side-effects from the intensive counseling and conditioning, I wanted to scrap the program altogether. Edna promised me she'd make the requisite modifications, however, so I permitted—”

“You,” said Tiff, launching herself at Emmett, giving him an impressive shove in the chest, “are a _scumbag_. You let her run everything, don't you? You just— _just_ —take her _word_ everything's all hunky-dory, when she's probably _experimenting_ on my dad?”

Desperately, Emmett sought out Marty for reassurance, but Marty's expression was one of such intense disillusionment—no, one bordering on _heartbreak_ —that he remained speechless.

“I can't...” Marty ducked his chin, eyes cold and bright with anger. “Can't fucking _believe_ this.” With shaking hands and—Great Scott, those _were_ tears in his eyes—he removed the Courthouse security clearance clip from his ID and held it out at arm's length. “I quit, Doc.”

“Please, _please_ reconsider what you're saying,” Emmett pleaded. “I have absolutely no intention of impounding Einstein, and I most _certainly_ don't intend to permit Edna to continue what she's been doing if my investigations turn up anything amiss.”

“Investigations?” said Tiff, getting up in Emmett's face without touching him this time. “What investigations? You'd better start taking some action, Your Honor, because I can tell you...”

“There aren't any investigations,” said Marty, quietly, letting the badge slip in his grasp until only his thumb and forefinger maintained hold. “At least there aren't any _I've_ seen, and I've been all up in this guy's business for like three weeks now. If you can even call it that, granted.”

“That's the trouble!” Emmett almost shouted, reaching down to deliver several pats to a frightened Einstein. “I've scarcely had time to discuss their implementation with you, Marty, much less—”

“Fine,” Marty said, clipping the badge back onto his ID quick as a flash. “For some reason, I believe you,” he continued, taking a moment to rub angrily at his eyes, “but this is gonna take a lot of explaining, Doc, and I mean a _lot_.” He gestured at Einstein. “What are we gonna do?”

“There's a place I can keep him,” Emmett replied, fixing Tiff with as firm and apologetic a look as he could muster. “A place Edna never goes, a place he'll be safe until Marty and I can work something out.” He turned to Marty, silently pleading. “This isn't how I'd hoped...”

“How you'd hoped we'd start off?” Marty laughed, sounding vaguely hysterical. “No shit, Doc.”

“Doc?” Tiff echoed, glancing rapidly back and forth between Emmett and her friend. “What now?”

“He calls me Marty; I call him Doc,” Marty explained flatly. “Office shorthand. It's complicated.”

“Uh- _huuuh_ ,” said Tiff, nodding slowly, backing away from them both. “Hey, I've gotta go.”

She bolted before either one of them could plead with her to not to breathe a word of this to anyone.

“Is Tiff good at holding her tongue?” Emmett asked Marty. “Or will this come back to haunt us?”

“She'd never betray _me_ ,” sighed Marty, “but you? I guess you're safe, too. Who'd believe her if she went around spouting a tale like this, huh? Edna would snap her in proverbial irons, too.”

“You're right, of course,” Emmett lamented, meeting Einstein's sad, imploring eyes. “We're likely in the clear.” He reached for Marty, uncertain of why this young man's approval had come to mean the world to him in such a short amount of time. “Please, Marty. Accept my sincerest apologies.”

“Let's get one thing straight, Your Honor,” said Marty, shakily, indicating that Doc should follow him back to the vehicle. “I'm not gonna be your cover-up flunky. Or Edna's. Or _anyone's_.”

“That's why I need your help,” Emmett admitted, letting Marty open the door for him. “Now more than _ever_ , and that's no exaggeration. Edna's up to something, I can see that. I only wish I'd seen it sooner, or at least _suspected_...” He settled into the back seat, letting Einstein hop up beside him, fists balled angrily in his lap. “Take us to the back supply entrance of the Courthouse.”

“You got it, Doc,” Marty said, with the grim ghost of a smile, slamming the door in Emmett's face.

Marty was silent for the entirety of the short ride. Even once they'd parked the vehicle and miraculously spirited Einstein into the service elevator without attracting attention, he was still tight-lipped and pale during the entirety of the ride.

Marty's eyes kept darting nervously to the needle, watching as they crept higher. When he noticed that there was one more level than in the normal Courthouse elevators and that it was where they were headed, he finally turned to Emmett. “You're just full of secrets, aren't you?” he said, tone more plaintive than malicious. “Where are we going?”

“Here,” said Emmett, as the elevator shuddered to a halt and the door creaked open. “After you.”

Marty stared at the tiny, marble-tiled vestibule, apparently confused by the elaborate gilt wainscoting and the unmarked wooden door that stood in front of them. “Is it open? Is that even _safe_ in a place like this?”

“It's always open,” Emmett explained, stepping past him with Einstein, turning the knob. “No one comes up here but me, and Clerk Wilson is the only party who monitors _that_ feed,” said Emmett, pointing to the lone security camera above the elevator. “And I come here often.”

“No way,” Marty breathed, following Emmett inside the apartment. “You've got an apartm...” The word died on his lips as he followed Emmett into the cluttered open-plan space, eyes instantly gravitating toward the gothic stained-glass window that matched the color scheme of the one installed in the mayoral office. “I take it back. This is, like...more of a _lair_ or something.”

“After the first decade or so,” said Emmett, letting Einstein off the leash, “it became apparent that I'd need a space to call my own, somewhere _not_ back home at the Estate. Someplace Edna would have no dominion whatsoever, and, in an unexpected turn, she honored my request. This turret was of no use to anyone but for storage, so I convinced her to let me convert it.”

“I don't even know what half of this stuff is _for_ , Doc,” said Marty, wonderingly, his fury apparently forgotten. He wandered amongst the unfinished gadgets, tools, and detritus occupying the workspace in the non-residential side of the vast apartment, occasionally pausing to pick at a bit of stray wire or carefully pick up an unfinished piece of equipment. “Is this where you did all of your studying?” he asked, far more in awe of this state secret than Toni had ever been. “Is it where you conduct most of your experiments?”

“Yes to much of the above,” said Emmett, with satisfaction, watching as Einstein scampered about, sniffing every nook and cranny he could find. “As you can see, it's kitted out with most amenities: kitchenette over there, bathroom over there...” He gestured pointlessly. “Bookshelves, faux fireplace, armchair, coffee table, wardrobe, bed. I spend most nights here. Have for a long time.”

Marty stepped away from Emmett's workspace, wandering throughout the living area. “This is heavy,” he said, plopping down in the armchair, welcoming Einstein's fuzzy head in his lap. “Doc, you're gonna have to get this dog to a vet. Or get a vet to this dog. I think he might have fleas.”

“Clerk Wilson will see to it first thing tomorrow morning, at my express instructions,” Emmett promised, tentatively approaching Marty and Einstein in an attitude of supplication. “While you and I get to work on this investigation project. I'm bumping it to the top of my list.”

Marty glanced up at him, biting his lip, and then leaned forward when Doc crouched beside Einstein to offer some extra attention. “Did Toni know about this place? What about her predecessor?”

“She had no predecessor,” said Doc, softly. “She was an experiment. An allowance on Edna's part.”

“The more I learn about how Edna runs this production, the less I like her,” Marty admitted, flopping back in the chair. “And I didn't like her all that much to begin with. Nobody really does, Doc.”

“In the weeks to come, the more settled you get,” warned Emmett, his self-loathing increasing moment by moment, “she will attempt to use you as a spy. She will also attempt to use you as leverage against me.” He made sure he had Marty's undivided attention, setting one hand on Marty's shoulder. “She's beguiling when she puts her mind to it, so be wary. It took a long time for me to...build up an immunity. Toni fell for it about the first year or so she was here, but once she realized...”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Marty said, clenching one hand over Doc's, squeezing tightly. “This is the kind of stuff you need to warn your assistant about on day one, got it? If I didn't trust you so damn much—which I do, by the way, even if I'm still kinda mad—I'd have been outta here for sure.”

“You can still leave,” said Emmett, utterly miserable, squeezing back. “I wouldn't blame you.”

“No way,” Marty insisted, his eyes hardening. “This town's _broken_ , Doc. We've gotta fix it.”


	4. The Best Intentions

**July 4, 1986**

With luck like Martin's, Edna _would_ decide to rope him into setting up the Civic Pride Fourth of July Bash right after he and Doc had resolved to launch a covert investigation on Citizen Plus. She'd accosted him instantly upon his and Doc's return from stowing Einstein in Doc's apartment, whisking him from Doc's side as they attempted to make their way through the entrance-level of the Courthouse. 

Martin had hoped against hope he didn't smell like dog; explaining that would've been impossible.

“Oh, _Martin_!” she'd exclaimed, striding purposefully in Martin's direction. “There you are!”

“Good morning, Cit— _Edna_ ,” Martin had corrected himself, sensing that Doc had tensed next to him as they halted in their tracks. “What can I do for you?” he'd asked, sounding too eager.

“I do hope that my dear husband won't mind if I borrow you for a few days,” Edna had said graciously, sparing Doc only the briefest of glances. “It's that time of year again, and, having lost Toni's capable hands, I hope that I can rely on you to step in and take her place? There are an awful lot of tables that will need setting up on the square, and I'll need you to coordinate with the caterers regarding delivery,” she'd continued. “I'll see to it you have help from the mail room, of course.”

At that, Martin felt a shred of relief; he'd managed, over the course of the past few weeks, to reconnect with his fellow Cadets who worked down there. None of them seemed to begrudge him having gotten the job, which he supposed made sense. Most of them respected him.

“Edna, this is _highly_ irregular,” Doc had interrupted crossly. “Toni was experienced and knew the ropes around here, but Marty's just finding his footing. Don't heap extra duties on him!”

“As bright and capable as the newest member of our team is,” Edna had shot back, not even giving Martin the opportunity to speak for himself, “I'm sure that he's _more_ than up to the task.”

Doc had given Martin a look filled with barely-concealed despair. It had hurt to see him like that.

“Don't worry about it, Your Honor,” Martin had said, clapping Doc on the arm. “It'll only be a few days. The picnic's Friday, and then we'll get back to business as usual. If I help Edna out this week, it means _both_ of us will be out of your hair, and you should be able to make some headway on...whatever our next project is, right? Get a head-start on digging up whatever you can?”

Doc's eyes had lit up; he'd taken Martin's meaning immediately. “I suppose you're right,” he'd replied, reining in his enthusiasm so as not to arouse suspicion. “Very well, Edna. Take him.”

In the days since, Martin had reported to Edna's office on arrival in the morning and hadn't _left_ her presence till seven o'clock each evening. He appreciated the overtime, but her stuffy precision pertaining to all things organizational made Martin's skin crawl, and _he_ was known for being an organized guy. By Wednesday afternoon, he'd realized he hadn't seen Doc since Edna had peeled them apart, and that had made him irritable.

“Why don't you take early lunch, Martin?” Edna had suggested around one o'clock in the afternoon, which was not early in _anybody's_ book but hers. “You've been working so _very_ hard, and you're starting to look peaked.” She'd swept over to her desk, opened a drawer, and drawn out a black silk clutch. She'd snapped it open, producing ten dollars. “Have a treat.”

Uncertainly, Martin had taken the crisp bank-note. “Thank you,” he'd said. “Do you mind if I take the full hour today?” Doc always, _always_ made sure they took the full hour, but Edna hadn't permitted him more than twenty to thirty minutes in the previous two days he'd worked with her.

Edna had sniffed, dubious. “I suppose not,” she'd replied. “See to it that you return promptly.”

Martin had rushed up to Doc's office as swiftly as possible, knocked breathlessly on the door, and convinced Doc to leave with him via the rear entrance. There weren't many places within reach of the Courthouse they could eat, and both of them were sick of SoupMo'. 

They'd settled on the diner run by Clerk Wilson's family. Goldie had worked for Louis Caruthers in his youth, and, after parting ways with his former employer, had founded his own business with his siblings, Harris and Letitia. Lettie, both named and nicknamed after an aging relative, managed the place with an iron fist. Martin had never been so happy to see someone so stern.

“Looks like you're in need of a respite, Your Honor,” she'd said as Martin and Doc entered. “Goldie tells me you've been workin' all the hours God gave. And it's true about the McFly boy, I see?”

“Indeed, Citizen,” Doc had replied, nodding deferentially. “He's as fine an assistant as I could ask. Our time is limited this afternoon,” he'd added, apologetically. “What are your specials?”

At Lettie's recommendation, the two of them had taken seats in the farthest-corner booth away from the windows and agreed to let her choose for them. While Lettie and her kitchen staff had worked, Martin had leaned almost halfway across the table, afraid to talk above a whisper.

“It's _endless_ , Doc! She's got me double-checking and triple checking all the reservations—making changes to the number of tables, changing her mind about how many buckets of potato salad! I suspect it's some kind of elaborate ruse. Why is she keeping me away from you?”

“For all the reasons I warned you about,” Doc had said. “That, and I've made the mistake of showing her my hand. I lost my temper Monday morning, let her know how indispensable I consider you. I should've been more guarded. Now, she'll behave like this any chance she gets.”

“At least this means you've had time to go poking around over in the Bureau of Discipline, right?” Martin had prompted, thanking Lettie as she'd brought them glasses of water. “Find anything?”

Doc had waited until Lettie was back out of earshot, and then he'd reached inside his jacket, pulling out a piece of paper folded in quarters. “Nothing _looked_ out of the ordinary, aside from the fact that the Decycling Bin has taken a greater yield lately. There's so much contraband coming down the chute that it hasn't even been organized by her team of Officers. I had a look around the Citizen Plus waiting rooms; they were all clean and perfectly empty. _However_ ,” he'd added, unfolding the piece of paper, sliding it across the table toward Martin, “I did find this under a stack of pornographic magazines. It's likely the last place she assumes anyone would look.”

Martin had looked over the paper, perplexed. “What is this, a bunch of coordinates or make-believe times or something?” It was printed with a mystifying sequence of letter-number combinations, from _X:01_ through _X:12_. “I have no idea what these are, Doc. Do you?”

“At first, I didn't have the faintest inkling,” Doc had said, taking a sip of water, “but then I got to thinking about the fact that she'd wanted me to design these—” he'd indicated the Citizen Plus prototype on his wrist “—to be programmable, to emit radio waves at deterrent frequencies for discouraging various forms of bad behavior. I never had time to assign functions to settings, but she reassured me she understood enough of the science behind my design to tweak it herself.”

“Oh _jeez_ ,” Martin had said, his stomach sinking as Lettie brought them bowls of delicious-smelling homemade chili with grated cheddar and crackers on the side. “This is bad news, Doc.”

“You tell those Caruthers folks no matter how many times they up their game, they're never gonna out-soup _me_ ,” she'd said, satisfied as she'd watched Doc take his first pleased bite.

“They don't even use real meat,” Martin had lamented. “You're the _best_ , Citizen Wilson.”

“You save that Citizen stuff for the Courthouse, young man,” she'd said, “and call me _Ms_.”

“I know, Marty,” Doc had said once Lettie had gone back to her work. “The side-effects that have been reported by Biff Tannen are definite signs of overuse, possibly even abuse, of these functions.”

“I hate to break it to you,” Martin had said, grimly, “but we need to figure out what every single one of these does.” His eyes had lingered on Doc's wrist as he'd considered the consequences of making Doc their crash-test dummy for this particular experiment. “Friday, during the party. Let's sneak up to your apartment, slap that thing on my wrist, and see what happens when we key these in.”

“Over my dead _body_ will you be the test subject,” Doc had insisted. “I had a direct hand in this mess, so the consequences are my responsibility. _You'll_ test them on _me_.”

Martin had wanted to say any number of things, from _I know you're in great shape, but I worry about you_ and _Enough of this town still looks up to you, myself included, so I can't let anything happen_ , but he'd been able to tell from Doc's expression that his decision was final.

“Okay,” he'd said, sliding the piece of paper back across the table. “Friday evening, we're gonna do this.” He'd rubbed the side of his neck, then, realizing they had only around fifteen minutes left. “I've, ah, missed you. A lot. Edna's nowhere near as fun to talk to. How's Einstein settling in?”

“He's been given shots, a bath, and a haircut,” Doc had said, checking off each item on his fingertips. “He's got a flea collar, and he doesn't like that in the least. He seems restless. He'll be happy to see you once Edna's week of madness is over.” He'd fixed Martin with an earnest look, and his self-deprecating smile made warmth pool in Martin's stomach. “I've missed you, too.”

Martin had taken a few bites of chili, feeling his cheeks heat. “As scary as Friday's gonna be,” he admitted, pushing the crackers in Doc's direction, “I'm looking forward to seeing you again.”

Doc's fingertips had brushed Martin's as he accepted the plate, lingering. “I can say the same.”

Most of Thursday had been spent in various agonizing holding patterns while supplies arrived, although the deliveries meant that Martin could at least leave Edna's office every couple of hours and sign off on something. They'd set up the tables immediately on delivery, with Martin directing the mail-room staff like an overseer with Edna's schematic for table-layout in hand.

Edna had come up beside him at one point in the proceedings, startling him. “So organized,” she'd praised, patting his shoulder. “So _efficient_. It runs in your family, I should think.”

Martin had side-eyed her with apprehension, checking off another table position as a pair of Cadets, Leonard and Travis, placed it with exacting care. “Why do you say that?” he'd asked.

“The footage your father has been sending the Review Center for the past year or so is always accurately labeled and in proper order,” Edna had replied, removing her hand from Martin's shoulder as abruptly as it had come to rest there. “Except for a few unmarked batches. Curious.”

“There's, ah,” Martin had faltered, nodding to Cadets Emil and Julia to let them know that they were headed in the right direction with their unwieldy burden, “always extra footage of no particular value, but he sends that along anyway, y'know? Better to be thorough than sorry.”

“Then advise him to find a classification system for even the most _useless_ of his intake,” Edna had replied, making Martin feel the most uneasy he'd ever been in her presence. “Carry on.”

That evening, on his way out, Martin had snuck up to see Doc. The fact that it had felt like sneaking was tragic commentary on the overall state of affairs. Doc had very nearly embraced him when he'd barged in through the newly-opened door, and Martin had been curiously disappointed that it had halted at their usual forearm clasp. He'd warned Doc about Edna's asking after George.

“There's got to be a reason she claims the unmarked footage is of no consequence,” Doc had seethed, pacing back and forth. “Do you have any idea what that might be?”

“Uh, maybe,” Martin admitted, realizing he was about to risk Doc's anger, given he'd been withholding information. “He's patched into _private homes_ , Doc. Private feeds. The amount of trash-talking against Edna—and against you, unfortunately—he's managed to gather is pretty impressive. And you don't even wanna _know_ about the contraband. Even those raids Edna orders when she gets a tip aren't scratching the surface.”

Doc had waved his hands in frustration. “Contraband is the _least_ of my concerns!” He'd halted in his tracks, rushing back to face Martin, hands on Martin's shoulders. “Marty, is there _any_ chance you might get your hands on some of those tapes and deliver them in person?”

“Are you kidding, Doc?” Martin had asked, leaning into the contact, covering Doc's hands with his own. “Dad's already _suggested_ that, but Mom wasn't too pleased about him proposing to put me in danger. I was afraid to bring it up, because I didn’t know what you'd make of it.”

“Edna wouldn't dare touch that filthy backpack of yours,” Doc had said, winking. “Smuggle them in when he's got a new batch, but make sure he still sends the standard tapes to Review. Suggest that he send some dummy tapes, unmarked ones with actual footage of no consequence, too. Edna needs to think the usual content is being sent in both categories, or she’ll get suspicious.”

“I like where this is heading, Doc,” Martin had replied, lacing his fingers with Doc's almost without thinking. “Tiff's gonna be overjoyed to hear you meant what you said about taking action.”

“I've seen the error of my ways, Marty,” Doc had said, gravely, eyes lit with some unidentifiable emotion as he glanced sidelong at their entwined hands. “I hope I'll never let you down again.”

Now, at five-thirty on Friday evening, the party was in full swing, and Martin was already at a loose end. Doc was still up on the dais next to Edna, Goldie, and a few other city officials; whatever they were discussing, Doc looked utterly bored by it, as his eyes kept darting in Martin's direction. He sat with his parents, Tiff, and the rest of the Tannens, trying his hardest to ignore the twins' antics.

“You've scarcely touched your food, sweetheart,” Lorraine fussed, passing Martin her cake. “Eat!”

“I hate to break it to you, but working on this stuff all week's kinda made me lose my appetite,” Martin admitted, shoving the plate back at her. “I'm sorry, Ma. I'll probably end up eating leftovers later once we've struck all this down. Those were some...pretty inspiring speeches, huh?”

“No different than the usual, if you ask me,” said George, cheerfully, pouncing on Lorraine's cake.

“I agree with you,” said Biff, seeming especially eager. “That stuff about vigilance was exactly what we needed. Have you heard the latest round of contraband statistics? Edna read them over the speakers this afternoon, right after the sector landscaping schedule. Not pretty.”

Martin stole a surreptitious glance at Biff's wrist, where the display was blank. He cursed himself for not having taken more careful notice on other recent occasions he'd interacted with the guy.

“I got a look at the overflow from the Decycling Bin,” Martin lied, figuring that having heard about it from Doc's own mouth was the next best thing. “There's a lot coming in. Record amounts.”

“I'm glad _someone_ in this town is having fun,” muttered Lorraine, swilling her lemonade.

“Cut me in next time?” Jo asked softly, leaning slightly closer to Lorraine. “I know you've got—”

“Oh _jeez_ ,” Tiff whispered, doing her best impression of Martin right in his ear. “Heavy.”

“I know, I _know_ ,” Martin sighed, pushing his potato salad around with his fork. “It's bad.”

Biff seemed not to have heard any of this. “How's the new job, Martin? Aren't Citizen Brown and his wife inspiring? Hopefully people will start signing up for Citizen Plus, and soon.”

“I think there may be a reason it's still in the testing phase,” said Martin, fixing Tiff with a reassuring look. “Citizen Brown and I have been looking into Edna's work on the project, making sure everything's up to regulations. He's so busy that he, uh, left it in her capable hands.”

 _Bless you_ , Tiff mouthed, shoving a large forkful of cake between her lips to cover it up.

“I can tell you everything's just fine,” Biff insisted, although he didn't sound convinced. “I've benefited so much from my conversations with both—”

Douglas chose precisely that moment to squash some cake in Donald's hair. Both boys were on the ground in seconds, kicking and screeching at each other. Tiff made an aggravated noise and got up, marching around the end of the table to take care of the scuffle.

Martin, meanwhile, caught a rapid flash of white up on the dais. Doc was waving to him, and, once he knew he'd gotten Martin's attention, pointed in the direction of the turret housing his apartment.

“I, ah,” Martin said, wiping his mouth on a napkin. “ _Hey_. Sorry to break it to you, but I've gotta get out of here,” he said, rising from his seat. He bent and kissed his mother on the cheek, clapping his father on the back as he rushed past. “There's some stuff I've gotta take care of inside.”

“Need any help?” Tiff called after him, but it wasn't as if she could've followed, not with one twin subdued in a lenient choke-hold in each arm. “I'm really good at clean-up! Just ask my mom!”

Martin slipped through the crowd largely unnoticed, careful to pass the dais when Edna was preoccupied with gesturing emphatically at Goldie. It was then that he realized Doc was no longer there, either; if Goldie had been complicit in distracting Edna, then Martin owed him thanks later.

He reached Doc's apartment to find an attention-starved Einstein waiting for him. It took him a full ten minutes to get the dog to stop jumping and licking him; after a certain point, it felt kind of futile. He let the dog knock him to the floor and lick all over his face, and that was how Doc found him when he finally arrived: laughing and covered in dog-slobber, scratching behind Einstein's ears.

“I told you he'd be glad to see you,” said Doc, wryly, extracting the dog so Martin could get up.

“Maybe you'd better tie him up across the room while we do this,” Martin suggested. “Something unpredictable could happen, and I don't want our lone innocent bystander getting hurt.”

Doc nodded tersely, fetching the leash, doing as Martin had asked. Einstein didn't seem happy about being tethered to the radiator, so Doc brought over his bed and a couple of toys.

“You're spoiling him already,” said Martin, grinning in spite of himself. “He's right at home.”

“The messes aren't fun to clean up, though,” Doc sighed, “paper-trained or not. I can only take him for walks after dusk, and the only sunlight he gets is through stained glass. It's untenable.”

“We'll think of something, Doc,” Martin reassured him, gesturing for Doc to come join him next to the workstation. “Did you remember to bring the settings list? If we don't have that, we're sunk.”

Doc took a deep breath, drawing the paper out of his inside pocket. “Present and accounted for.”

“Right,” said Martin, unsteadily, taking the paper off Doc’s hands. “I guess we start at the beginning.” He reached for Doc’s left hand, holding it loosely so he could study the device on Doc’s wrist. Doc’s fingers curled around his, an attempt at reassurance. “You ready, Doc?”

Doc nodded, lips set in resignation. “As ready as I’ll ever be. See that red button amidst the others?” he asked, indicating the face of the device. “Press it twice, and on the second, hold it in. That’ll switch it out of watch mode and into other functions. You’ll get a cursor to prompt entry.”

“Biff doesn’t seem to be using the watch function,” said Martin, pressing the button twice as instructed. He keyed in _X_ at the cursor he got on the left side of the colon and _01_ on the right. Letting go of the button caused the setting to blink, as if in confirmation, and then vanish. 

“I don’t feel any different,” said Doc, after a few seconds of exchanging expectant looks. “Let go,” he instructed Martin, disentangling their hands. “Maybe your touch is causing interference.”

“I feel fine, too,” Martin said, “so I doubt this setting is strong enough to really do much.” He watched Doc’s expression for minute changes, but none came. “What happens if you think about…y’know, stuff that’s forbidden? Do you feel sick or disoriented, anything like that?”

Doc seemed dazed for an instant; whether that meant he’d taken Martin’s suggestion or not, it was difficult to tell. “I feel…passive,” he said. “Academic detachment from the subject at hand.”

“What subject is that?” Martin asked, grinning slightly. “Doing the subversive thing we’re doing?”

“No,” replied Doc, his tone flatter than usual, his eyes piercing. “The…other thing. Forbidden.”

Martin nodded, proceeding cautiously, deciding perhaps it was best not to ask for further clarification. “I’m gonna kick it up a notch to X:02, okay? Or maybe you should do tha—”

Doc hit the button twice, holding it in, puzzled as to how he might summon the dexterity to do the entry himself. Martin leaned in and did it for him, noting Doc’s demeanor was almost trance-like.

Setting X:02 differed very little from X:01, although the effects were becoming abundantly clear. Doc was distant, even _vacant_ , and his responsiveness seemed restricted more to action than to speech. At the slightest offhand suggestion, he’d execute any action without having to be told twice. Telling him to go pet Einstein when they hit X:05 seemed harmless, but Martin felt terrible ordering him around like that. By that point, Doc was giving only one- and two-word answers.

The exercise was a study in mind control by torturous, delicate degrees, and Doc had no clue.

Martin regarded Doc’s vacant gaze as he knelt, still scratching obediently behind the dog’s ears. “I’m so, so sorry, but I’ve gotta do this, Doc,” he said, coming over to kneel beside him, tugging him away from Einstein. So much for not wanting to hurt the dog; Einstein was whimpering and shying from both of them now, cowering next to the radiator. “Come stand over here, okay?”

Doc followed obediently until they stood next to his workstation. Martin took Doc’s wrist again, hitting the button, holding it. “It’s gonna be more of the same between here and the next few, so I’m gonna kick it up to eleven,” he said, keying in the setting, “I’m sorry, Doc. _So_ sorry.”

Doc wavered on his feet, eyelids fluttering; for a moment, Martin thought he might pass out. However, he seemed to regain composure almost immediately, eyes fixed blankly on Martin.

“Can you hear me, Doc?” Martin asked, touching Doc’s shoulder. “Can you tell me that much?”

Doc made a vague, noncommittal sound, nodding clumsily. Leech’s terrible zombie impression flashed back into Martin’s memory with disturbing immediacy. It hadn’t been far off the mark.

“Oh _Jesus_ ,” Martin whispered, waving a hand in front of Doc’s face. “I don’t know how to turn this off, but I’ve gotta see if…” He swallowed, gathering his courage. If he’d learned anything from Doc in the past month, it was that a thorough scientist commits to his objective. 

Doc tilted his head, making another scarcely human sound, somehow…attentive, _waiting_.

“Touch my face,” said Martin, quietly, articulating the first action that had popped into his head.

Doc reached with clumsy, yet careful hands. He placed them on Martin’s cheeks, his brows knit.

Martin swayed at the contact, his eyelids fluttering. It would be so easy to lean forward, to close the space between them, to do what Tiff had insisted he’d never get _any_ earthly chance to do. _Close enough_ , he thought, her words echoing ominously in his mind. And _wrong_.

“Take off the prototype,” Martin said, his throat raw with regret. “Throw it on the floor. Smash it.”

Doc removed his hands from Martin’s face, pace gentle and deliberate. He unfastened the wristband of the device with difficulty, but he was able to pull it loose after several tries. He dropped it on the floor in front of Martin, and then proceeded to stomp on it—once, _twice_.

The cracking of glass and polymer and delicately-wired insides seemed to rouse Doc from whatever device-induced spell he’d been under. “Marty, I…” He faltered, reaching for Martin. “I feel…”

Martin caught him without reservations, without even thinking, pulling him close. He buried his face against Doc’s chest, shaking. “It should’ve been me,” he said. “It’s mind control, but it’s not subtle. I mean—in the lower settings, yeah, you can still talk, but the higher you kick it up, the less…the less verbal the subject becomes,” he said, attempting to restore some semblance of professionalism. “You might as well have been a zombie at X:11, Doc. And I refused to try 12.”

“Great Scott,” Doc murmured, his mouth pressed to the top of Martin’s head, his breath against Martin’s scalp sending a shiver down Martin’s spine. “This _is_ worse than I thought.”

Martin gave Doc a squeeze before easing back a little in their embrace, gazing up at him with uncertainty. “What are we gonna do?” he asked, leaning in again before he could stop himself.

The kiss was electric, _spontaneous_ —maybe even fall-out from the device’s lingering effects. Nonetheless, Doc’s hands found their way back to Martin’s cheeks of their own accord, and Martin’s hands settled at Doc’s waist not to sounds of protest, but to a pleased hum low in Doc’s throat.

Doc was the first to break away, trembling. “We’ll discuss our scientific findings on Monday,” he said, stroking Martin’s cheeks apologetically before withdrawing his hands, “and _you’re_ going to go home with your family. I want you to leave as soon as possible, do you understand?”

“Edna won’t let that fly,” Martin said, stunned and disoriented. “She expects me to oversee take-down of the tables and decorations.” He blinked at Doc. So they weren’t even going to talk about it?

Doc marched over to his desk, grabbed a pen and slip of paper, and boldly scribbled something.

“Find her,” said Doc, curtly. “According to that paper, you’re unwell. I came inside to make sure you were all right. You’re in no condition to be striking down the aftermath of these festivities. _Go_.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Martin said, heading for the door in confused humiliation. He didn’t look back.


	5. Close Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who have been reading all of my various BTTF timelines over the past year and a half, you'll recognize that I'm pulling certain details from elsewhere for use in this iteration. It seemed to fit as poignantly here as it did in the other instance.

**July 18, 1986**

Martin was only ten minutes into his lunch break, and the day was still dragging. Not that he expected anything different after two weeks of propriety so stiff on Doc's part that he'd been too chagrined to challenge the new status quo. He was beginning to get a feel for what being somebody's P.A. anywhere _else_ in the world must be like, and he wasn't enjoying it.

“Earth to McFly!” Tiff shouted, tossing a handful of unsorted letters right in Martin's face.

“Ugh, _Jesus_ ,” Martin muttered, gathering as many of them as he could. “I don't think this is what your dad had in mind when he suggested I get you in here for your month-of-real-world-work-experience summer project. Five days and you're just...goofing off already. It's gotta stop.”

“Wanna know what else has gotta stop?” Tiff asked, collecting the rest of the correspondence from the floor, blushing as the other mail-room Cadets looked on. “You comin' down here for an hour every day looking like your boss-slash-boyfriend's issued you a slew of Demerits.”

“It's complicated, I told you,” Martin groaned, re-wrapping what was left of his sandwich. “Remember what I said about Fourth of July?” Martin lowered his voice to a whisper. “Discovering what the watch does wasn't all that happened. We kis—there was, _ah_ —an incident.”

Tiff scarcely got the rubber band around the stack of letters a second time. “Shut. _Up._ ”

Martin hid his face in his arms, too mortified to shift from his spot on the stool next to her. “Seemed like it was mutual, or at least I _think_ it was mutual. Doc seems horrified that he followed my lead, though, that he's...just not talking about it. And I don't know how to raise the subject without, I dunno, getting him so upset that he decides firing me is the better part of valor.”

“Damn,” Tiff said under her breath, tossing the packet of letters in the _FOR DELIVERY_ tray. “If we would've had a bet going on the you'll-never-smooch-him thing, I'd have lost _that_ , too! I shouldn't gamble with you, McFly.”

“Can't you two take this top secret agony-aunt session somewhere else?” Julia griped, elbowing Tiff and Martin in succession as she shuffled past with a heavy bin in hand. “It's distracting! Or, if you _really_ insist on doing that crap, at least make it interesting for the rest of us and _speak up_.”

“I kinda appreciate it,” said Leonard, shrugging, looking miserable about having to manually stamp a bunch of oversized packets. “Nothin' else interesting happens down here. You guys are like those mysterious old-school soap operas that nobody in this town gets to see anymore.”

“I'm onboard with that,” Emil agreed. “Just goes to show you that even our fearless Brigade leader has issues he'll only share with his bestest buddy in the world. Actually, goes to show you Citizen Brown probably has issues, too.”

“Anybody could've told you _that_ , Citizen!” Travis shouted from across the room, where he was weighing an unwieldy package that would probably need to be ripped open and inspected. “I mean, jeez. With a hosebeast of a wife like Edna—”

Tiff burst out laughing in spite of how horrified Julia and Emil looked on their co-worker's behalf.

“These squares might have a point,” Leonard said, winking. “Watch what you're sayin', dipshit.”

“Well, _I_ happen to agree,” Martin admitted, and the room went silent. “Edna's the worst.”

Tiff surveyed the Cadets' astonished faces with a look of satisfaction. “Way to come out, McFly.”

“Listen,” said Emil, hesitantly, coming over to where Martin and Tiff were seated at the work-top, “I don't want us to get in trouble or anything, but...” He swallowed. “My parents have been sayin' stuff like that for a _long_ time. Are the rumors true? Is she the one running the show?”

Martin nodded slowly, lifting his head as Julia and the others gathered around, too. If they wanted to hear what he was saying, he'd let them hear _this_. “It's worse than you think. I can't go into detail, but believe me when I say that—uh, _hosebeast_ —is up to no good.”

“Codename Hosebeast, _yo_!” Leonard shouted, cackling. “Trav, you're a freakin' genius!”

Julia had traded her annoyed expression for a genuinely frightened one. “My mom works in the Review Center,” she said quietly, white-knuckling the edge of the work-top. “I didn't want to believe the stories she's been bringing home for _months_ , but they...” She kicked the leg of Martin's stool, causing him to jump. “They keep getting this footage with all _kinds_ of proof that people aren't comfortable with how Ed—um, Hosebeast and Four Eyes—run this town. But guess what? Hosebeast just confiscates and erases it.”

 _There's no way I can hold off any longer, not when I'm killing the surveillance down here for an hour every day, waiting for an opening_ , Martin thought, fetching his Eastpak from the floor. It rattled as he unzipped it just far enough to shove in the brown-bagged remainder of his lunch.

Sliding off the stool, he shouldered the backpack, steeling his resolve. “I'm gonna tell you something, but I've gotta swear you to secrecy,” he said, and all eyes were on him. “Anyone who wants no part in it, leave now. Cadets' Honor?”

“Cadets' Honor,” said every one of them, even Tiff, in various shocked, solemn tones of voice.

“That footage is coming from my dad,” Martin said. “He's been sending it in for _months_ , but, based on the response he gets every single time, our theory was that Hosebeast tosses it out before it _ever_ reaches, uh...” He can't bring himself to call Doc a derogatory codename like Four Eyes, no matter what. “The appropriate authorities. Thanks for confirming our suspicions, Julia. So I've decided to take matters into my own hands—” he shook his backpack, accentuating the rattle of tapes “—and deliver them directly.”

“Mazel tov,” said Julia, softly, patting Martin on the arm. “My mom will be _so relieved_.”

“That's the most hardcore thing I've ever heard,” Leonard said after a few seconds. “Right on.”

Emil and Travis exchanged high-fives with Tiff, and then grinned at Martin like they meant it.

“It might mean trouble for us,” Martin continued. “It might mean trouble for _everybody_.”

“Hell with playing it safe,” said Julia, through gritted teeth. “I'm tired of seeing Mom like this. I'm tired of holding my tongue and watching my back. If you're starting a revolt, count me _in_.”

Martin halted en route to the door, glancing wide-eyed back over his shoulder. Julia wasn't the only one reacting, wasn't the only one giving Martin a nod of agreement or a thumbs-up. Each of the Cadets behind him had found some way to silently express the sentiment of _count me in_.

“I can't tell you how much that means to me,” Martin said, saluting, “and I _definitely_ can't tell you how much it'll mean to Doc. Now, I hate to go, but I've gotta get these tapes upstairs. I should've this morning.”

“Doc?” Julia echoed as the door shut behind him, followed by an indistinct response from Tiff.

The elevator ride to the top floor was by and far the longest Martin had _ever_ experienced, and his palms were sweating profusely on his backpack straps by the time he reached Doc's office. The door was open, as it tended to be when he returned from lunch on the days Doc didn't accompany him—and it had been two weeks exactly, to the _day_ since that had happened.

“Hello, Marty,” said Doc, pleasantly, not looking up from the sheaf of Demerits he was sorting.

Martin took a steadying breath, marching up to Doc's desk, not even caring if his anger and trepidation showed. “The sorting can wait, Doc,” he said, removing his backpack, plunking it down right on top of the neat stack Doc had in front of him. “ _These_ are more important.”

Doc blinked at Marty's Eastpak in undisguised indignation, followed by perplexity as he seemed to register the sound the bag had made. He gave Martin a hopeful, questioning look as he undid the zipper. “If this contains what I _think_ it contains,” he breathed, “then we're in business.”

“I had to wait a couple weeks, until Dad had compiled a new batch,” Martin explained, removing one of the tapes, handing it to Doc. “Right when we decided we were gonna do this, Dad had sent off a bunch. He doesn't keep too many personal copies. There's not enough space in our garage.”

“As for this week, I hope he mailed the usual would-be promo footage, plus some unmarked tapes full of dross so that Edna at least _thinks_ she's getting what she normally does?” Emmett asked, rising excitedly from his seat, rushing over to shove George's tape in one of the players.

“Just as you asked, Doc,” Martin reassured him, rushing to Doc's side, _ecstatic_ to find that the awkwardness of the past fortnight had melted the moment Marty decided enough was enough.

“I can't believe I'm actually about to see...” Doc trailed off, hitting _PLAY_ on the machine.

Martin felt the brush of Doc's fingers against his own, and it was nothing, nothing at _all_ , to curl his hand around Doc's. “You might not _like_ some of what you're about to see,” he cautioned, squeezing Doc's fingers in pre-emptive reassurance. “But it'll be enlightening.”

Doc said nothing during the first twenty-odd minutes of the audio-visual onslaught, although his grasp on Martin's hand tightened almost to the point he was cutting off Martin's circulation. None of this was new to Martin, as George had taken to outright _showing_ him the unedited intake. As per usual, Edna took most of the abuse in the recorded conversations, but there was enough disparagement leveled at Doc that Martin could tell that was the reason he'd gone so pale. Even though Doc _knew_ the system was untenable, hearing it had to sting.

“You don't need to see any more,” Martin said, letting go of Doc's hand, reaching to turn off the feed. “It's infinite variations on the same theme. The majority of Hill Valley hates your regime. Uh, _yikes_. Sorry, didn't mean for that to rhyme.”

“They make it sound as if we've ensconced this town in a fascist police state,” Doc said wearily.

“To be perfectly honest with you, Doc?” Martin said, popping the tape free of the machine, carrying it back over to Doc's desk to join the others. “You kinda _have_. There's something so...so _1984_ about this 1986 of ours that it's pretty damn creepy, don't you think?” Martin couldn't help meeting Doc's surprised expression with a half-smile. “My dad's a writer in his spare time, remember? He's still got all these battered sci-fi and literary classics from when he was an English major in college. I've read a lot of 'em over the years.”

“Did that clue you in as to what was going on?” Doc asked. “When you were younger, I mean?”

Martin nodded, re-zipping his backpack. “I must've been about thirteen or fourteen when I read it.”

“I'll be damned,” Doc said, approaching the desk, withdrawing a key from his waistcoat pocket. “That would go a long way to explaining how you became particularly skilled at hiding some of your true feelings, while at the same time operating within the system we've established.” He unlocked one of the large lower drawers of the desk, gesturing inside. “Put it there for now.”

“With pleasure,” Martin said, unceremoniously scooping his backpack off the desk. “Y'know, never thought I'd hear myself say this, but I agree with Edna. That thing's seen better days. Maybe I should retire it in favor of that briefcase.”

Doc shoved the drawer shut and locked it, straightening up, wide eyes fixing instantly on Marty's.

“You must never, _ever_ say that,” he said, replacing the key in his pocket. “It's sacrilege.”

“What?” joked Martin, rubbing his neck. “That my old backpack's anything less than a treasure?”

“That anything to which you've held with such fierce, uncompromising principles—even as unremarkable an object as a broken-in school bag—is anything less than emblematic of...” Doc faltered, glancing away. “Apologies. I've gotten carried away.”

At that, Martin felt his patience snap. “Can I speak plainly, Your Honor?” he ventured, grabbing hold of Doc's restless hands. “If _carried away_ is what we got on the Fourth of July, then—then there's no place I'd rather be. No, no— _look_ at me, do you understand what I'm—”

“Marty,” Doc said, drawing him forward by tentative degrees, so timid it made Martin's heartbeat stutter in his chest. “As long as I reassure you that I _do_ understand, would you do me the simple courtesy of never, _ever_ calling me by that wretched title again?”

“You've got yourself a deal, Doc,” Martin agreed, using Doc's momentum to leverage himself up on tiptoe. This time, there was absolutely _no_ doubt in Martin's mind as to where the impulse to touch, to get this _close_ , had originated.

Just as Martin had feared, kissing for an extended period with that much of a height difference was comical at best and painfully awkward at worst. Doc stumbled backward against his own chair, so Martin pushed him down and braced his hands on the arms, finding that they were more or less at the same level. It wasn't perfect, though, because he couldn't really hold Doc properly.

“Marty, _this_...” Doc trailed off, holding Martin at arms' length. “This isn't the safest place for...”

“I would never have guessed,” said Martin, teasingly, bumping his nose against Doc's. “Upstairs?”

“I suppose we could—yes,” said Doc, carefully, as if taking mental note. “Einstein's long gone.”

“Oh _jeez_ ,” gasped Martin, his stomach sinking. “D'you mean to tell me Edna found out?”

“No,” said Doc, breaking into an extraordinary, _devious_ grin. “Goldie took him to the lab.”

“But isn't _upstairs_ your lab?” echoed Martin, kneading at Doc's forearms, _seriously_ wishing he could just dive back in for another go. “What exactly are you getting at?”

“I'm getting at the one place in the world that dog can run around fenced-in grounds to his heart's content and not worry about Edna issuing a death sentence!” Doc exclaimed. “My secret lab down near Clayton Ravine! I can't believe I didn't think of it in the first place. That's where anything else irregular goes that happens to fall into my hands before Edna's, so why not a stray dog?”

“I guess you'd need a lot more space for developing all that tech than just a single apartment,” Martin said, grinning in awe. “So Edna just _thinks_ you've got a bunch of stuff constantly in development upstairs, when in reality you're zipping off-site after hours to work on heavier shit?”

“That's about the short of it,” Doc replied, bumping his nose against Martin's in kind, as if to reassure him he hadn't forgotten what they'd been doing. “Now, as long as you're amenable—”

“Ten steps ahead of you, Doc,” Martin said, planting a quick peck on Doc's lips before tugging him to his feet. “Granted, it's only, like...two in the afternoon. Is anybody gonna come looking for us?”

“Not if I leave a memo with Goldie on our way through to the back,” Doc said. “Official business.”

 _Business as usual_ , thought Martin, giddily, leading Doc toward the door, _is more like it_.

 

*****

 

As distant as it was, Emmett remembered the heady sensation of falling in love. The alien impulse to put something—or, as the case may be, some _one_ —else before his beloved scientific pursuits had thrown him for a loop. He had hoped that Edna would prove worth the risk.

Well, so much for hope. Forty-eight years on, it was obvious he shouldn't have bothered.

This time, there was no question in his mind that Marty was worth every risk he should _never_ have taken on Edna's account. The young man was so fiercely devoted to Emmett's wayward extracurricular (and, yes, even _subversive_ ) pursuits that this latest proposition seemed just as thrillingly logical as harboring a stray dog or testing a dangerous prototype.

Marty had maneuvered Emmett into backing him up against the apartment door once he'd locked it behind them, locked it for the first time in _years_. The notion concerning risk gave Emmett pause.

“Marty,” he said, one gloved hand tangled in Marty's fly-away hair, the other pressed fervently against Marty's cheek, “I need to be absolutely _certain_ that you've thought—”

“Thought this through?” Marty cut in, tantalizingly out of breath. “Yeah. Now that I'm sure you're doing this because you want to, _not_ because you're under that creepy mind-control, you _bet_ I have.” He slipped out from between Emmett and the door, dragging Emmett through the maze of contraptions and furniture until they stood next to Emmett's embarrassingly unmade bed.

“There are no laws against workplace fraternization in Hill Valley,” said Doc, gravely, “because, if there were, Edna and I would be in a _world_ of trouble. The point I'm trying to get across is, almost anywhere else? This kind of thing would be illegal. It compromises professionalism.”

“Good thing we're not all that professional, huh?” Martin asked, burying his nose in the crook of Emmett's neck, clinging as if he suddenly found himself dizzy. “Please say something, Doc.”

Emmett kissed the shell of Marty's ear, his last stitch in the fabric of propriety coming undone. Every fiber of Marty's being pleaded so candidly for action that Emmett couldn't bear it a second longer. 

“May I?” he whispered, drawing off his gloves one after the other against Marty's back so that Marty would feel the rasp of each as it slid free, and then fell carelessly to the floor.

“Jesus,” Marty breathed, voice trembling with relief, fingertips curling into Emmett's waistband, tugging with impatient encouragement. “ _Please_.”

Stunned, Emmett let Marty kiss him for the first time since the incident of which they hadn't spoken, pushing Marty's shirt gently up to bunch at his ribs, palms soaking in the warmth of Marty's skin. Marty whimpered, breaking away just long enough to shuck the garment over his head.

“I want this so bad that I—” Marty faltered, fingers creeping back along Emmett's middle until he could slide both hands pointedly in Emmett's back pockets; the lack of innocence in Marty's gesture was dazzling, hypnotic. “Granted, I've never even—I don't even _know_ —”

“Whatever you wish,” Emmett murmured, cupping Marty's face reverently in both hands, throat tightening in dread of what Marty was about to discover. “So long as it's in my power to give.”

“Take your clothes off?” asked Marty, eagerly, sitting back on the edge of the bed, unfastening his trousers with such unflinching grace that it made Emmett's mouth go dry. He kicked them on the floor as if to prove a point, sliding one hand from his belly down to his briefs. “Show me.”

Emmett nodded, unbuttoning his shirt as if compelled by Marty's unrelenting gaze. He shed one layer after another on the hardwood floor between them, astonished to find that Marty was still touching himself through the unexpected purple fabric, heel of his hand working subtly, unashamed. 

Dropping his trousers was more difficult than Emmett had imagined it would be, what with the beauty before him. However, Marty was no-nonsense at the very last, reaching to draw Emmett forward by the hips and tug down his undershorts for him.

Emmett closed his eyes, bracing himself.

“Hi there,” said Marty, softly, his warm cheek pressed to the insistent throb between Emmett's legs. His hands slid back to where they'd been when there had still been pockets for purchase, kneading with care. Emmett felt his knees give when Marty turned his head, nuzzling without reservation, mouthing him with the faintest brush of tongue. It was as if Marty had nothing to say about what he saw, no curiosity about even the blatant, faded-to-white scar low across Emmett's abdomen.

“Please,” Emmett said, reduced to the same syllable he'd heard a moment ago. “Let me explain—” 

“Shut up, Doc,” said Marty, wryly, his breath gone as abruptly as it had been applied. “Open your eyes.” He heard Marty shift on the edge of the mattress, heard the whisper of elastic against skin, followed by another garment's faint _plop_ on the floor. “C'mon. The suspense is killing me.”

“It's killing _you_?” asked Emmett, doing as he was told, cheeks burning as he caught sight of Marty's flushed skin bare before him. The young man was shivering, but not uncertain, arms braced on either side of his thighs, as if he couldn't decide whether to propel himself forward into Emmett's arms or to lie back and wait. “I hope you understand what a risk I had assumed I was taking.”

“That wasn't so bad, was it?” asked Marty, smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he reached for Emmett, and Emmett was lost. “I have eyes, and I've read a lot. I don't _care_ , Doc.”

“All that aside, then, you also underestimate how long it's been since I've engaged in...” Emmett stepped forward into Marty's embrace, drawing Marty tight against him. “ _Years_.”

“That's kinda hot,” Marty said, smirking without the faintest trace of malice, tilting his chin up mischievously against Emmett's chest. “Means we're much closer to being on the same page, huh?”

Emmett tugged Marty up by his elbows so he was no longer seated, wrapping his arms around Marty more tightly. The contact tore a whimper from Marty's throat, so Emmett soothed him with a kiss to the temple. “Tell me what will feel best," he said, tongue stiff with romantic disuse.

“I'm...” Marty buried his face in the crook of Emmett's neck, pushing up on tiptoes to reach, latching onto Emmett's collarbone with his teeth. “Not gonna impress you that much,” he mumbled, sucking intently at the spot. “Doc, you've gotta understand. I talk a decent game, but I'm new at this.”

“ _Shhh_ ,” Doc murmured, pressing Marty back against the edge of the mattress, mind made up. “Lie back.” He let his fingers seek Marty's erection of their own accord, watching Marty twist and gasp beneath the touch as they settled onto the bed. “Show me,” he whispered, closing Marty lightly in his fist. “I'm new at this, too. New at _you_.”

“Shit,” Marty hissed, closing both of his hands tightly around Emmett's, dragging Emmett's fingers up and then back down again, writhing in apparent bliss. “Sorry, didn't mean to— _shit_.”

Emmett kissed Marty's forehead this time, letting Marty set whatever pace he wished. “There's no need to hold your tongue,” he said, intoxicated, brushing his lips against Marty's cheek, his jaw, the downy skin beneath his earlobe. “No Ordinances apply here. Marty, is this...”

Marty nodded frantically, his hands falling away, letting Emmett take over. “Yeah, Doc,” he panted, teeth closing on Emmett's shoulder as he shifted in time with each movement. “ _Yeah_.”

For another minute, Emmett stroked Marty just as he'd been shown, trembling at the heave of Marty's belly against his arousal. Marty swallowed, tongue darting along his lower lip, fumbling between them to take Emmett _entirely_ in hand. Emmett faltered at the jolt of pleasure.

“Marty,” he said quietly, stilling his hand as Marty struggled to find the right angle, finally taking Marty's hand in his. He slid both arms around Marty, lifting him so that they fit together, moving in response to the sudden jerk of Marty's hips. Marty bit back a cry, trembling harder than ever.

“I'm,” he gasped, words knocked out of him by the pace of Emmett's careful thrusts. “Oh _God_ , Doc, that's—good, oh _God_ I'm gonna—that's _good_ —”

Emmett couldn't think, not with Marty wrapped around him so trustingly, so breathtakingly undone.

“You are everything, Marty,” he whispered. “You are _miraculous_.”

Marty felt fragile and jittery in Emmett's arms, shivering through his orgasm with each hitching breath he drew. “Hey,” he said, once he was breathing normally again, grinning in weary satisfaction. He brushed Emmett's cheek with the side of his thumb. “Your turn.”

Emmett tucked his face into the crook of the Marty's neck, pushing his hips harder against the slick heat between them. “Please don't think less of me if I...” He groaned in frustration, skin prickling, _electric_. “It's not you, not in the least. It's not always possible for me to...” Marty felt wonderful against him, so maddening that Emmett felt like shedding his own useless skin.

“It's okay if you can't,” Marty whispered, fingers feathering through Emmett's hair, caressing his scalp. “C'mon, Doc. You're all right. You're perfect. Just let me make you feel good.”

Emmett let Marty roll him over, clean them both up, and tuck him close. Marty's lips at his neck, Marty's hand on him beneath the covers—it _was_ good. And he couldn't fault the young man for determination, not when Marty ducked under the sheet to suck Emmett with languid persistence as the tension in him finally, _finally_ snapped.

Which sound was more startling, Emmett wasn't sure—his low, helpless groan, or Marty's breathless laughter as he emerged from under the sheet with his hair a mess and his fingers rubbing inquisitively along his lower lip. Emmett had left little more than a slight, translucent trace.

“Are you sure you haven't had any practice?” Emmett asked, lethargic and content, tugging Marty back into his arms. “It seems to me you know a great deal more than you think.”

“Nah,” said Marty, shrugging, tucking his head happily beneath Emmett's chin. “Guess-work.”

“As you can imagine, Edna knew nothing of my—peculiarity, or perhaps I should say _condition_ —during our courtship,” Emmett sighed. “It was a different time, and propriety held a great deal more sway with the two of us than it might have held with, say, your free-spirited grandmother.” He stroked Marty's hair, enjoying the way Marty's hum of approval vibrated through his chest. “Our wedding night was...confusing for her, and _humiliating_ for me. She got through it because I was determined to please her, but she left me unsatisfied. She asked if this meant there wouldn't be children; what could I say? She locked my medical file down tighter than Fort Knox.”

“Did she...y'know, get over the hang-up eventually?” Marty asked, pinching idly at Emmett's flat, unremarkable chest, one side and then the other, making Emmett shiver pleasantly. “I'd like to think she got to the point she could take care of you as well as you could take care of her, even if...” Marty frowned, choosing instead to kiss Emmett's sternum. “Even if I don't like to think about it.”

“Yes, but only ever halfheartedly,” Emmett admitted, overwhelmed by the attention. “And then, after a certain point, not at all. We haven't shared a room in years, much less a bed.”

Marty lifted his head, frown deepening to an indignant scowl. “I bet she's the type to make it all about her,” he said, leaning forward to kiss Emmett. “Did she wallow in questioning her whole damn identity like the prize asshole she is, and then blame the crisis on you?”

“That's near enough to the mark,” Emmett murmured against Marty's lips, reveling in Marty's display of vindictive fury on his behalf. “She was afraid she'd accidentally married a woman. Imagine.”

“Hey,” Marty said, nibbling at Emmett's lower lip, “you're more than man enough for _me_.” He kissed Emmett again, till they were both dizzy with it. “And I don't give a fuck about your medical file, although maybe fill me in on this—” he set one protective hand over Emmett's scar “—whenever you're ready? I mean, _ah_ —only if there's anything I should know in case of emergency.”

“Removal of irksome spare parts,” said Emmett, shrugging, “for which I had no use whatsoever.”

“Jesus, Tiff was right. She said I was a goner,” Marty whispered, with restrained hope, as if he feared he was gambling with his life by way of confession. “I'm head over heels for you, Doc.”

The underlying claim was one toward which Emmett had developed fierce cynicism in Edna's case, but which here, accompanied by Marty's earnest eyes and expectantly parted lips, he believed.

“The sentiment,” he breathed, kissing Marty with effortless, awestruck tenderness, “is returned.”


	6. Paradise Misplaced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may have picked up on the fact that there's a scene very early on in this series where Martin calls through on the Courthouse buzzer, and the dialogue between him and Edna is a near-exact echo of a similar exchange between Marty and Edna in _BTTF: The Game_. There have been a handful of tiny, scattered instances like that; I attempt to echo the base canon, whether it's the game or the films or both, in any way possible. This chapter contains an instance of something I'd been hoping to do since starting this project, which was to incorporate almost an entire scene from the game, but with the requisite modifications.

**August 14, 1986**

Martin looked up from the Demerit copies onto which he'd been methodically stamping Doc's signature all morning. He handed the latest across the desk to Doc, who fished the recipient's file from the stack in front of him and placed it inside. Their fingertips brushed on each exchange, sometimes catching to stroke or to hold, lingering. Doc hadn't worn his gloves since...

“It's a good thing there's no surveillance in here,” Martin sighed, catching Doc's affectionate, bewildered gaze. “At least none you know about, right? I think we'd be _screwed_.” Endearing, that Doc still couldn't believe Martin had spent every evening he could get away with either in Doc's apartment or at the lab. They'd even managed to spend the entirety of a few nights together, usually on weekends when Martin could claim it was overtime.

To be fair, he _had_ been working overtime. He'd been working overtime with the mail-room Cadets and Goldie on a back-up project so dangerous that he hadn't even found the nerve to tell Doc about it. It would require a loophole, and he didn't even _begin_ to know where to find one.

“I've found hidden cameras in here on no fewer than four instances over the decades we've occupied these premises,” said Doc, with distaste, filing the Demerit. “I've dismantled them every time. After the last instance, which was a little over two and a half years ago, Edna stopped trying.”

“That would've been right after Toni started, wouldn't it,” said Martin, applying Doc's stamp to the next Demerit much harder than he'd intended to. The scarlet ink bled through onto the next page, leaving a ghostly trace. “How do you know she hasn't tried again since _I_ started?”

“Because I've inspected this office twice weekly, from top to bottom, ever since June twelfth,” said Doc, grinning at Martin, sliding the soaked document into the next recipient's folder as if it were of no consequence. “Also, we mustn't underestimate how highly Edna thinks of you. That's been the greatest surprise of all. She may act with her usual over-circumspection, but I don't think she suspects a thing about the—” Doc considered the next folder “—nature of our relationship.”

Martin nodded, somewhat relieved, stamping lightly over the bleed-through on the next Demerit.

“I wouldn't be too sure about that, Doc,” he said, handing over the paper. “She may not suspect we're romantically involved, but I think she _does_ suspect we're otherwise up to no good.” He stamped the last five Demerits in quick succession, fanning them out in front of him so that Doc could read the names and retrieve the corresponding folders. “I swear the cameras downstairs and on the main square follow me more than they used to, and when Edna corners me for a chat, it's all I can do to escape her incessant questions. Either she suspects I'm helping you nose around in her business, or she's, uh...” He swallowed, wondering if it was possible. “Got the hots for me, too.”

Emmett blinked. “Inasmuch as I've never known Edna to have a wandering eye, at least not that I've been able to _discern_...” He appeared to consider the notion while he filed the last five Demerits, his frown intensifying. “I suppose I could have a word with her about that... _cloying_ tone she seems to use with you, how it's inappropriate and probably makes you uncomfortable, but then I'd feel...hypocritical.”

“No way,” said Martin, firmly, rising from his chair, striding around to Doc's side of the desk so he could collect the pile of completed folders. “What we've got here, this is _mutual_. What Edna's gunning for, _if_ she's gunning for something, isn't the same by a long shot.”

“Your faith in me is touching, Marty,” Doc sighed, wresting half the stack out of Martin's grasp, “but I hardly think that anyone viewing the situation from the outside would be so forgiving.”

“Pardon my French,” said Martin, about to indulge in one of his favorite Tiff-isms, “but people _suck_. They should learn to mind their own business. Granted, Edna's police state sets a pretty bad example. It's difficult not to be complicit when complicity is the law itself.”

“Let's get these back in the drawers and call it a day,” said Doc, rising from his seat, and Martin felt a touch sorry for having reminded _him_ what he'd been complicit in. “Do you plan to...”

“Stay or go home?” Martin asked, following him over to one of the side alcoves of the office. “As much as I'd like to stay, I've already _worked late_ two evenings this week. I told Dad I'd help him review some new footage tonight.” Impulsively, he set his armful of folders down on the floor, embracing Doc from behind while he was busy sliding a few items from his stack into a nearby drawer. “I'd stay every night if I could, and you never even ask,” Martin whispered, pressing his mouth between Doc's shoulder blades, appreciating, for once, how thin the polo shirts were.

“This arrangement must be one that exists on your insistence, not on mine,” said Doc, softly, dumping the rest of his armful into the drawer even though most didn't even belong there. “Consent on both sides is essential, but at no point must I _ever_ be the one to dictate—”

“Any other night, Doc,” Martin sighed, rubbing his cheek against the damp, fabric-covered spot he'd just kissed, “and you asking me to stay would be a breath of fresh air. You have a say in this, too.”

Doc's hands crept to cover Martin's where he rested them comfortingly over Doc's belly, squeezing with tentative hope. “Tomorrow's Friday,” he said. “Would you do me the honor of staying?”

“If I do you honor, Doc,” Martin laughed, pressing another kiss against Doc's back, “then I can't imagine what it is you do to _me_. I feel like some kind of royalty. Jesus, you're _so_...”

“Go home, Marty,” said Doc, rubbing Martin's forearms. “Your father needs you more than I do.”

They kissed before Martin left, as if each moment they manage to steal might be their last, because that was the way it had been for weeks. Martin narrowly missed a cart on his way home, hating the fact his bike had taken so much wear in the past few months that it might soon need replacing.

The sight that greeted Martin as his tire bumped over the foot of the driveway sent him jumping off his transport in alarm, letting it scrape to a halt and fall with its back tire sticking out into the street.

“ _Dad_!” he shouted, racing to where his father lay on the garage floor. George had fallen asleep on the job before, but he'd almost always awakened as a result of falling out of his chair. He shook his father gently, rolling him onto his side. _Please let him be okay, please—_

George moaned, his eyelids fluttering. “Pop out the tape, son. I think it's done rewindi—” His features contorted in pain as Martin's fingers found the base of his skull. “ _Oh_.”

“Whoa, _whoa_ ,” Martin coaxed, helping George to his feet. “Take it easy.” He guided his father over to the swivel-chair. “Sit here.”

“Guess I blacked out for a minute there,” sighed George, groggily. “Fell out of my chair.”

 _Given you've probably had nothing to eat all day but peanut brittle, no wonder,_ Martin thought, but he held his tongue. “Fell _nothing_ ,” he replied vehemently, wandering back to stare down the length of the driveway, his sense of panic rising. “Somebody whacked you!”

“Whacked me?” George asked, dismayed. “Impossible. We take great pride in the fact that incidents of physical violence in Hill Valley have fallen to virtually...” He shook his head, running his fingers over the very spot Martin had found by accident just moments before. “ _Ow_.”

Martin turned whirled to face him, his panic suddenly overridden by a sense of dread. “Who did it?” he asked, silently praying that his father hadn't suffered memory loss. “Can you tell me?”

“This can't be happening!” George exclaimed, his eyes narrowing fearfully as he studied Martin's face. “Oh, _son_ ,” he whispered. “You don't think this has something to do with...”

“There's gotta be a clue around here somewhere,” replied Martin, determined, marching toward the back wall of the garage. He almost tripped on what felt like a piece of piping, but which proved to be something else entirely when he bent down to grasp it. “Dad? That's not one of our bats, is it?” He couldn't even fathom why his father would've dug it out of storage; he and Linda and Dave hadn't played baseball in _years_.

“No, no,” said George, giving Martin a puzzled look. “You know as well as I do that our family never uses aluminum. Dad always said good, old-fashioned ash wood was the only way to go.”

“Right,” Martin muttered, hefting the weapon in his hands. “I'm having trouble thinking clearly right now, too, it looks like.” He watched George get to his feet and approach to inspect the bat.

“Curious,” George said, running his finger along the imprinted logo. “Why do you think it's here?”

Martin set his lips in a grim line, raising the bat to mimic striking the back of George's head with it.

“ _Oh_ ,” George said, crestfallen. “Why would anyone do a thing like that to a nice Sector-L Citizen like me?” However, his facial expression suggested he might have his suspicions. The pantomime that they kept up for the sake of surveillance was appalling, and Martin was sick of it.

“What's the last thing you remember?” Martin asked, determined to get to the bottom of this. He dropped the bat on the floor, both he and his father startling at the ungodly clatter it made.

George frowned, resuming his seat at the bank of monitors. “I was sitting right here, copying another incriminating scene onto my—” He paused, horrified, swiveling to one side. “My tapes!” he exclaimed, casting about frantically, getting back to his feet. “My _tapes_! What happened to—”

“Stay calm, Dad,” Martin cautioned, attempting to keep his nerves under control, but he knew it was a lost cause. He followed his father's erratic footsteps, making a grab for George's elbow.

“Are they on the floor?” asked George, frantic. “Do you see 'em? They're in the box marked _Raw Footage_. You know! We were supposed to review and decide which you'd take next.”

Martin spotted the overturned box in the corner. He crouched and rummaged through the open tape-cases, revealing one after another to his father's disbelieving eyes. “Empty,” he said.

George shook his head despairingly. “This is mystifying. I'm sure they were in there before—”

“Before whoever-it-was whacked you in the head and took 'em,” Martin said, his dread complete.

“Never thought I'd live to see the day I'd be mugged in this town,” replied George, glumly, “but given the kind of fire we've decided to play with, I guess I should've expected it. Thank God Edna didn't go after you instead, son. It would be far too easy for her to get you at work.”

“Edna was behind this one way or another,” Martin sighed, rubbing the side of his neck in agitation, despising that he had no control over the tic, “but I doubt she would've done it _herself_.”

“Then who did this to me?” asked George, plaintively. “We've got to get to the bottom of it. Fast.”

“Maybe there are some more clues around here,” Martin said, discouraged to see his father so upset.

“What's the use?” George lamented. “Even if we find out who took the tapes, we'll never get them back without...attracting attention to ourselves. Edna's surveillance cameras are everywhere.”

“Do it for your parents, Dad,” Martin begged. “Please don't tell me Grandpa Artie and Grandma Sylvia risked their lives standing up to Kid Tannen way back in the day for nothing.”

George's eyes hardened, but not in anger. “ _Never be afraid to do the right thing_ ,” he said. “That's what he always used to tell me. That's what he _still_ tells me every chance he gets.” With that, he started fiddling with the nearest knobs and dials, biting his lip in determination.

“What are you doing?” Martin asked, stepping up to watch over his father's shoulder. “ _Dad_?”

“Trying to remember which is the right feed,” replied George, distractedly, still flipping switches.

“Feed to what?” Martin demanded, confused, nonetheless experiencing a surge of renewed hope.

“To the surveillance camera,” George said, as if that explained everything. “The one in the yard.”

“Wait a minute,” said Martin, realization dawning. “You have a camera trained on _yourself_?”

“Of course!” said George, cheerfully, turning back to his work. “You've gotta cover all bases.”

“Don't I know it,” Martin breathed, clapping his father on both shoulders. “Way to go, Dad!”

“Help me figure out which monitor I'm on,” George said, focused, switching to yet another feed.

Martin reached over his father's shoulder, hitting the switch on the monitor to George's right twice in succession. It was half sharp memory, half dumb luck: Martin had recalled the visual perspective resulting from that particular switch from one of the previous weeks in which they'd sifted through footage. However, it hadn't occurred to him that that feed had been set up by his father rather than by the municipal camera-maintenance team. The seamlessness of the patch-in was impressive.

“There!” George blurted. “That looks like us, so the surveillance tape must be on _this_ VCR!” He rewound the tape, ever impressive in his ability to estimate the number of seconds required to back up a particular number of minutes or hours in real-time. The screen now showed George seated alone at the bank of monitors. “This must be before the attack. Let's see...” He frowned, rubbing his chin. “I remember cleaning the playback heads at 5:30pm. You found me and got me back on my feet around 5:45pm. It couldn't have been very long after...”

The words died on George's lips. They both watched, horrified, as Biff Tannen's unmistakable figure—striding aggressively up the driveway, bat in hand—entered the frame and did its worst.

“It's Biff,” said Martin. He now understood, with terrible clarity and precision, what had occurred.

“But it _can't_ be!” George protested. “You don't know that; the perpetrator's back is to the camera the whole time! Besides, the Citizen Plus program has rendered Biff as gentle as a—”

“Dad,” said Martin, hesitantly, “there's something I've gotta tell you, and you're not gonna like it.”

 

**August 15, 1986**

The next morning, installed at his desk by six o'clock thanks to a sleepless night, Emmett was relieved when the door to his office swung open at seven-thirty instead of eight. Marty looked as if he hadn't slept much, either, which was an _immense_ cause for concern.

“Is everything all right?” Emmett asked, rising to approach him, but Marty broke into a run and reached Emmett first. He didn't even mind that Marty's abrupt, immediate embrace all but crushed the wind out of him. Resting his cheek against Marty's hair, he closed his eyes, willing to wait.

“Everything's gone FUBAR, Doc,” Marty muttered against Emmett's jacket. “Edna used her mind-control on Biff. Used it to make him _hurt_ someone, I mean. You're not gonna believe this, but my dad keeps a surveillance camera trained on himself as insurance. Thanks to that feed, we found out who whacked him over the head and stole the tapes he and I were meant to review last night.” He paused for breath, tipping his chin up to look at Emmett. “Uh, maybe I should back up a little. When I got home last night, I found Dad unconscious on the garage floor. He couldn't—”

“Great _Scott_ ,” Emmett sighed, pressing a reassuring kiss to Marty's forehead. “No need to stress or explain the situation further; I think I get your drift.” He rubbed his left temple, feeling the onset of a headache. “Edna will act more swiftly—and _violently_ —from here on out.”

“We've gotta find a way to stop her,” Marty sighed, disentangling himself from Emmett, hopping up to sit on the edge of the desk so that he could take over the job of massaging Emmett's temples. “In the meantime, Doc, it's not even...” He grabbed Emmett's wrist, the one with the Swiss watch, checking the time. “It's not even seven forty-five. Business hours don't start till eight.” He resumed rubbing Emmett's temples with both hands, leaning forward for an _achingly_ slow kiss.

Objectively speaking, it was the last thing they should be doing in the office—never mind that Edna didn't have them under surveillance, never mind that Marty had locked the door behind him on arrival. Emotionally speaking, Emmett didn't have the heart to resist Marty's earnest invitation.

He didn't even feel the slightest prickle of apprehension until they'd been at it long enough to unfasten most of their clothing from neckline to waistband, breathing hard against each other's lips. Marty was a vision, there was no denying it. The gears behind them thew moving shadows across Marty's chest, contrasting with the rosy stained-glass glow on Marty's pale skin.

“Come here, Doc,” Marty whispered, tugging him close, pressing their hips flush. “ _Quick_.”

Emmett had no better response to that than letting Marty, with his legs abruptly wrapped around Emmett's waist, ease them into whatever kind of movement he wanted. The pace Marty set was lazy in spite of its urgency, as if they had all the time in the world. The ticking shadows agreed.

After several minutes and a number of increasingly breathless kisses, Marty tensed in Emmett's arms, sucking a breath in through his teeth. “Doc—please, _Doc_ , keep—like _that_ —”

The sound of a key in the lock struck Emmett's ears too late, but he held Marty tighter, didn't dare stop.

“You opportunistic little _whore_!” Edna shrieked, fury echoing in the vastness between them.

“Oh _Jesus_ ,” Marty whispered, clamping down on Emmett with all his strength, as if he hoped to melt into Emmett and hide. At least they were positioned such that Marty's back was to the intrusion, and Emmett was similarly shielded by Marty's body. He held fast to Marty, defiant.

“Despicable of you to accuse him of such, Edna,” Emmett shouted back, encouraging Marty to hide his face in the curve of Emmett's neck so that he wouldn't feel obliged to turn his head and watch, “what when you've happily spent all these years making one of _me_.” He took a deep, furious breath, returning Edna's glare. “We're a fine match, Marty and I, wouldn't you agree?”

“ _Unbelievable_ ,” Edna sneered, drawing almost, but not _quite_ close enough to touch the edge of Emmett's desk. “But then again—I warned you, didn’t I? One teenage hooligan really _is_ all it takes to bring Hill Valley to the brink of moral ruin!”

“If finally having a clear picture of what you've been doing with Citizen Plus counts as moral ruin,” said Emmett, coldly, feeling his arousal fade to a combination of protectiveness toward Marty and outrage toward Edna, “then count _me_ out. I should've shut it down via Executive Order.”

“Oh, but _darling_ ,” Edna cooed, reaching for the Newton's Cradle, setting the orbs in motion with cruel efficiency. Her smile widened when she saw how Marty shivered. “I would've simply reversed it when you weren't looking, and heaven knows you're _rarely_ paying attention.” She looked Marty's spine up and down, pleased with his state of embarrassed dishevelment.

“Theoretically, I can reverse anything that _you_ reverse,” Emmett pointed out, smoothing Marty's untucked shirt down to cover the small of his back. “Ad nauseam. In fact, I can march right downstairs and have the esteemed Clerk Wilson annul our marriage with one signature!”

“Seems to me you won't be marching anywhere till your little _problem_ is taken care of,” replied Edna, tilting her head appraisingly. “Perhaps I ought to have placed emphasis on _little_.”

“Okay, just a _fucking_ second,” Marty hissed, head snapping up. “There's no way I'm gonna—”

“Marty, _please_ ,” Emmett said softly in Marty's ear, holding him still. “It's not even worth—”

“Such _language_ , Martin,” Edna remarked tartly. “I can't imagine how the Demerit will look on your record, let alone the _scores_ it'll be joining given your current...conflagration.”

“There will be no Demerits of any kind issued on the basis of this incident,” said Emmett, sternly, cutting Edna off before she could hurl whatever insults she'd had in mind. “You'll leave this room, Marty and I will get back to filing, I'll see to the legalities, and then this evening we can discuss what comes next. I should like to add, however, that you're _most_ unwelcome—”

“Unwelcome in my own home? _Hah_ ,” Edna replied, waving her gloved hand at him, turning to leave. “You'll be lucky to have that _lab_ of yours left once I'm through with you!”

Marty gasped. “I thought she didn't know about that,” he whispered. “Is Einstein gonna be okay?”

“Oh, blow it out your exhaust pipe, _dear_!” Emmett shouted after her. “Do your worst!”

Unearthly silence settled once Edna had slammed and re-locked the door. Marty was still shaking ever so slightly, although it was obvious that an anger equal to Emmett's had replaced his terror.

"Let's stay here tonight, Doc," he murmured, nuzzling the curve of Emmett's neck. “Screw her.”

“Given I suspect I've just been tossed out of my own house,” said Emmett, “I'd have had no other choice, at least not till she ousts me from the apartment, too. But it's one I'll _gladly_ make.”

“The thing you need to remember,” said Marty, strangely calm as he ran his fingers through Emmett's hair, “is that, even though she's effectively been running the show from day one, most things _are_ technically in your name.” He kissed the spot against which his lips had been moving, worrying at it with his tongue, tugging on the strands of hair twined around his fingers. “Also, uh, something you should know? Hearing you stand up to her like that was _hot_."

“The thing _you_ need to remember,” said Emmett, reassuringly, easing back into the rhythm they'd abandoned in the moment of Edna's interruption, “is that I'm my own legal counsel. All those years toting files around for my father haven't gone to waste.” He pressed both hands to the small of Marty's back, amazed to feel a twitch of renewed interest between them. “I'm so close,” he breathed against Marty's ear, tone warm with praise, “but I can hold out till you're close again, too.”

Marty whimpered, tensing just as he had before. “ _Doc_ ," he gasped, hips snapping forward.

Emmett closed his eyes on a groan, thrusting forward, giving himself over to the sheer pleasure of knowing what he'd accomplished, letting Marty hear him. “I love you so,” he managed, unthinking, clinging to Marty with one arm tight around his waist, the other bracing them steady against the desk as they sagged against each other. “I would do anything, _anything_ to—”

“Then make an honest man of me,” Marty laughed, holding Emmett tighter. “As soon as you can.”

“That, I believe I can do,” Emmett murmured, returning Marty's kiss with unhurried satisfaction.

“We've got a problem, though,” Marty said, drawing back at length. “She's still running the show.”

Emmett frowned, taking his meaning. “I meant what I said. My marriage, I _can_ have Goldie, in his additional capacities as Register and Recorder, annul. My soon-to-be-ex-wife's nearly unlimited executive power, which I so foolishly permitted her to codify? Not so much. I can reverse her orders as a sole check-and-balance system, but the truth is that I've never been able to keep up with the web we now know she's woven behind my back. I may have hurled threats that _sounded_ impressive, but the sad truth of it is that I suspect she has the capacity to win.”

Marty set his chin on Emmett's shoulder, tapping the desk. “Are there any laws you _can_ change, minor ones that she's been happy to leave in your jurisdiction? Ones that, if you did change them, would create some kind of loophole for...an actual show of populist consensus?”

Emmett gasped, breathless for a different reason, brushing Marty's hair back from his forehead.

“There's a corollary permitting for elections in extenuating circumstances,” he said. “The list of extenuating circumstances is so dense, and it's been so many years since she last reviewed it, that I doubt she'd notice if I slipped in _First Citizen's marriage, dissolution thereof_.

“That's great,” Marty replied. “Because if you can create a loophole, I can work with some people I know, Goldie included, to deliver an election. Postal ballots out and back in again, the whole nine yards. Those are more or less ready to go, enough for every Citizen of voting age in Hill Valley.”

“As much as I hate to say this,” said Emmett, kissing Marty's temple in grateful apology, “let's get dressed. I'm about to call an emergency meeting with the City Clerk, and I need you to take minutes.”


	7. Rebellion

**August 28, 1986**

Martin adjusted his headphones with shaking hands, rewinding the dictation tape to catch the fragment he'd missed. He hit _PAUSE_ once he'd gotten it, typing out the remainder. His unsteady hands were the only sign that anything was amiss. He was a nervous _wreck_.

The clock in front of him on Doc's desk read _4:42 PM_. Doc still hadn't returned from his meeting with Edna, which she'd called after thirteen days of radio silence in the wake of Emmett's annulment of their marriage. Insofar as Emmett knew, she hadn't left home or the Bureau of Discipline or God-knew- _where_ until the moment she'd called the meeting.

Coughing, Martin itched beneath the collar of his polo shirt and removed his headphones. There was no use in continuing to work not only when Doc was facing a dragon, but also when Goldie and the team required Martin's presence in the mail room at five o'clock sharp.

It was an important day, but it was also a dangerous one. And Martin hadn't counted on Doc being whisked away for part of it. If anything, he'd hoped Doc would accompany him downstairs.

An abrupt, strident buzz emanating from one of the monitors to Martin's right interrupted his thoughts. He'd never had the opportunity to answer Doc's private surveillance line, and he knew it could only be one of very few people, up to and including Doc. Martin dashed from the desk, where he'd been unashamedly occupying Doc's chair, over to the bank of monitors.

“Hello?” he said once he'd flipped the switch, squinting at the image resolving on the screen.

“Marty? It's me,” said Doc, his face close enough to whatever camera he was facing that Martin couldn't tell much about Doc's surroundings. He was smiling, although there was something of a strained quality to his tone; Martin supposed that was only to be expected after who he'd been dealing with for over an hour. “Edna and I have some...tedious remnants to sort out, and it could take the better part of the evening. I'd like you to—” Doc paused, fixing Martin with a look that seemed curiously urgent “—close up shop as planned. In fact, leave a little early if you'd like, and...see to that mail-room errand on your way out. Find me later, Marty. You know—”

An ungodly flare of static caused Doc's image to break up and his voice to cut out. “There's something wrong with the feed, Doc!” Martin shouted, peering into the lens mounted above the monitor. “I didn't get that last bit! You might wanna repeat—”

Doc's solemn features filled the screen, eyes cast to one side, as if he suspected the camera were no longer on. His lips shaped only two words before the feed cut out again: _Find me_.

“Over and out,” Martin said, switching off the monitor, dashing back over to the desk to collect his things. The sooner he got downstairs, the better, and the more distracted Edna was? Perfect.

At five o'clock on the dot, he walked through the mail-room doors to find the space so packed with Cadets—most of whom were _not_ officially in Courthouse employ—unloading stacks of ballots from the mail sacks with which they'd been sent out on their collection errand.

The ballots had been dispatched on the twenty-fourth with the Sunday Municipal Notices bundle, and they had included Martin's brief, exacting instructions. For any Citizens choosing not to destroy the document on sight, the four-day completion window had been non-negotiable.

Martin stared at the stacks of folded-in-thirds ballots covering every available surface. Goldie came over from where he'd been assisting his son, Louis, and his niece and nephew, Isadine and Emerson, engage in a task that looked very much like unfolding and tallying votes.

“In our tightly-regulated town of around four thousand, around twenty-five hundred are of voting age,” said Goldie. “At an initial estimate, about eighteen hundred ballots have come back.”

“Eighteen _hundred_ ,” Martin echoed, dropping his backpack on the floor. “Any trends?”

“Mixed feelings as to whether Citizen Brown ought to be the candidate of choice, as you'd expect,” replied Goldie, carefully, “but our other contender is doing...remarkably well out of the gate.”

“That's what I like to hear,” sighed Martin, although he knew better than to give in to full-blown relief. “Here, I'll help with the tallying for a couple of hours. After that, I've gotta go meet Doc.”

There was a festive air about the ballot-sorting endeavor that Martin couldn't help thinking _should_ have been the atmosphere on the Fourth of July. He'd completely lost track of how many hours had passed. By the time Tiff snuck up on him, he was deep in conversation with Louis. She goosed the back of Martin's neck so hard he jumped.

“Hey, watch it!” Martin exclaimed, rubbing the spot Tiff had just pinched. “I almost put the tally in the wrong column, and, believe me, you _wouldn't_ want one of these votes going awry.”

“Big damn hero of the hour,” said Tiff, throwing an arm around Martin, winking at Louis. “Hey, Wilson,” she said, leaning harder into Martin. “Collection of dubiously legal documents is quite the risk in its own right, doncha think? _Please_ ask your cousin out for me?”

“I don't know why you think you've gotta do it like that,” sighed Louis. “Unless something goes seriously wrong, it's gonna be a free county before the weekend's out. Ask her yourself!”

“Yo, Isadine!” Emerson shouted, picking up the conversation and running with it. “You single?”

“Who wants to know?” asked Isadine, busy folding the ballot she'd just tallied into a paper airplane. She launched it at the nearest recycling bin, doing a victory dance when it lodged in the slot.

“Citizen Tannen,” Martin said, extracting himself from under Tiff's arm, shoving Tiff in Isadine's direction. “She'd like to reassure you that laying one on Connie Li in the gym didn't mean squat.”

“ _Connie_ sure didn't think it meant squat,” Isadine countered, folding her arms as she got right up in an alarmed Tiff's face. “She's been following you around every chance she gets.”

“Yeah, uh, _well_ ,” Tiff stammered. “Citizen Li isn't a Cadet, and I'm thinking I've only got a thing for chicks in uniform, you know what I mean?” She smiled, regaining her sly composure.

“Civil disobedience done you in?” asked Isadine, smirking. “Now you got a thing for rebellion?”

Martin turned away from watching the exchange grow more heated in _just_ the way he'd hoped it would. “Listen, Louis,” he said, tallying a few more ballots in quick succession, “I wanna thank you for this. For everything. It can't be easy watching your dad step into the line of fire.”

Louis shrugged, regarding Martin with a sidelong nod. “It's nothing when that's your whole life.”

“That's... _jeez_ , that's really true,” Martin agreed soberly. “Whatever happens, it's gonna be fine. This won't be my story anymore, and it won't be Doc's, either. It'll be in better hands.”

“Godspeed whatever else you've gotta set in motion,” said Louis, grinning, “Citizen McFly.”

Realizing he shouldn't hang around for much longer, Martin touched base with Goldie on his way out. Doc would want to hear the emerging news, and Martin had no intention of leaving him alone with it all night. The delivery would feel like sacrilege, but it would be for the best.

The trouble was, Doc wasn't waiting in his office. He wasn't in Edna's office, either, as _that_ was as dark and eerily silent as Doc's by the time Martin, out of breath from having taken the stairs instead of the elevator, got there. From there, Martin rushed straight to the service elevator and took it the whole way to the top. Doc's eternally-unlocked apartment was just as they'd left it.

“I'm getting a really bad feeling about this,” Martin said to the silent contraptions and spare parts scattered this way and that, making his way over to the unmade bed. “It's not like you, Doc.”

Exhausted, he wanted nothing so much as to lie down and sleep, to wait for Doc to return. _Find me_ , Doc had said. Well, he'd sure as hell _tried_ , right? He'd looked in all of the usual—

 _Find me_ , thought Martin, shivering. That wasn't the kind of thing Doc tended to say; usually it would've been something like _meet me at such and such place at such and such time_.

“No,” Martin said. “Oh no no _no_.” He rushed back to the elevator as fast as he could.

Courthouse Square was eerily deserted when Martin exited via the front gate. There was no sign of Officer Parker or any of Edna's other yes-men on patrol, and _that_ in and of itself was suddenly as terrifying as the fact that Doc was missing. If Edna could hold Doc against his will, whether by physical force or by other means, it surely meant she'd amassed Officers as back-up.

Martin was about to fetch his bike from the rack across the way when something moved in his peripheral vision. He recognized the hulking shadow even before he set eyes on its owner.

“ _Uhhh_ ,” said Biff, reaching for Martin as he approached with stiff, erratic movements.

“C'mon, not _this_ again,” Martin sighed, attempting to keep his anxiety under control. He took a step back as Biff lunged at him. “Hey, Biff. Remove the prototype, d'you hear me?”

Biff stopped in his tracks, giving Martin a puzzled look. “Oh— _arrr_ ,” he said. “Marty?”

“Yeah, good,” said Martin, encouragingly. “That's right. I'm Marty. Some people call me that.”

“What?” said Biff, woefully perplexed, his eyelids fluttering. “ _Ungh_ ,” he added, lurching again.

“Take off the Citizen Plus watch, Biff!” Martin shouted, gesturing at Biff's wrist. “Smash it!”

“ _Huh_ ,” Biff said, holding the device up in front of his face, examining it. “O—kay?”

Martin watched with satisfaction as Biff clumsily removed the prototype, dropped it on the brick walkway, and brought the heel of his shoe down on the face of it with a sickening _crunch_.

“There,” Martin said, catching Biff by the elbow as he wobbled where he stood. “Feel better?”

“I feel friggin' _weird_ ,” Biff replied, rubbing his temples. “Like I got a hangover or...” His expression changed to one of longing, which didn't surprise Martin at all. “ _Damn_ , I could use a beer.”

“You're sounding more like yourself all the time,” said Martin, encouragingly. “Listen to me, Biff. You might not remember a whole lot right now, but I've gotta tell you something. See that watch you just destroyed? Edna's been using that to control your mind. You were about to attack me.”

Biff yanked his elbow out of Martin's grasp, as if offended to find it there, and then sneered at the shattered mess on the brick. “I knew there was somethin' up with that Citizen Plus crap.”

“Right, _good_ ,” Martin continued, realizing he'd have to play this just right if he meant to win over his freshly regressed audience. “Meanwhile, Citizen Brown and I have been trying to help you. To help everyone. To get the bottom of what's been going on around here, you follow?”

Biff narrowed his eyes at Martin. “What _else_ is going on around here?” he asked dubiously.

“Uh,” Martin began, “well. That's kinda why I need your help. I have reason to believe Citizen Edna has kidnapped Citizen Brown and has him somewhere on these premises. You've spent more time in the Bureau of Discipline lately than anyone else I know, so I was wondering if you—”

“That ain't where she's got him,” said Biff, bitterly, grabbing hold of Martin's polo-shirt collar so roughly that, for an instant, Martin thought he was in danger. Biff dragged Martin over to the guard-booth, which housed the Decycling Bin. “Down there,” he said, pointing into the void.

“Yeah, I mean...” Martin frowned. “Wait. I haven't been down there. Based on what Doc said after he went snooping, I sorta just imagined the kennel and the contraband storeroom are all one—”

“Kid, there's a hell of a lot more down there than you've ever _dreamed_ ,” said Biff, peering into the Bin's depths, almost fearful. “If she's got him, he's probably strapped to the table.”

“ _Table_?” Martin echoed. “Do you...okay, do you mean to tell me there's some kinda...”

“It starts as more than just mind-control,” Biff explained, jiggling the guard-booth doorknob. Finding it unyielding, he heaved a grim sigh. “Hey, Marty. You up for a little field trip?”

“I don't think I have any choice,” replied Martin, swallowing hard. “How do we get there?”

Above them, Citizen Brown's clock struck midnight. Wind picked up, rustling through the leaves.

“This here's a shortcut,” said Biff, straddling the Bin's sturdy rim, “and last one down's a chicken!”

 

**August 29, 1986**

“Don't worry, Emmett,” crooned Edna, in a tone intended to be reassuring. “It'll all be over soon.”

Emmett squeezed his eyes shut as Edna dialed his unwieldy headgear up another notch. He'd begun to feel lightheaded around thirty minutes into the treatment; now, over an hour along, he was beginning to feel outright _nauseous_. The intermittent stench-stimulus certainly didn't help.

Edna frowned from her vantage-point over him, gesturing to the Officer at the control panel in the observatory above them both. The intolerable, screeching static that assaulted Emmett's eardrums made him twist in his restraints, groaning in pain. Edna's Officer had modified the equalizer.

“I'm sorry about the discomfort, my love,” Edna continued sweetly, “but it's really all for the best.”

Emmett simply glared at her, which drew a sneer in response. She waved to whomever was at the control panel again.

After a few seconds' delay, the Gastrosensory and Olfactory triggers were employed again in swift succession. Whoever this new technician—who'd replaced the previous Officer, who'd seemingly collapsed on the job about ten minutes prior— _was_ , they didn't seem as keen, prompt, or certain about the task of municipal torture. Gagging, Emmett closed his eyes tightly. _Marty, wherever you are, I hope you're close._

He heard Edna clear her throat, puzzled as to why the puffs of noxious vapor hadn't died down.

“Officer, why hasn't your shift-mate rejoined us down here? And what's _wrong_ with this thing?”

“He, _ah_ ,” said the Officer at the control panel, over the intercom, “probably went to the bathroom.”

“Nonsense,” said Edna, sniffing haughtily as Emmett opened his eyes again. “That's not permitted for _over_ another hour. Be a dear and page him, won't you? Something's not right with—”

Edna's missing assistant dashed back in through a side door, badly winded behind his tinted visor.

“Looks like the aroma tanks have clogged again,” said the Officer, sounding different than Emmett had remembered him sounding at the start. In fact, even the guard at the panel sounded... _off_.

“Oh, thank you,” said Edna, turning to the Officer. “I hadn't noticed that!” She gestured for him to step closer to the machine, but the Officer seemed reticent. “Come on, make yourself useful.”

While the Officer knelt and inexpertly began to fiddle with the machine, Edna leaned over Emmett.

“I'm sorry about the delay, dear,” she said soothingly. “This would go a lot easier if you'd just give up this... _madness_ with Martin. We'll give him a quiet send-off with severance pay, how's that?” She took a deep breath, smiling almost kindly. “You should concentrate on the future.”

Emmett wanted to laugh in her face, but he felt too ill to manage it. “There is no future for us.”

“You won't think that in a few more hours,” Edna sneered, dropping her well-intentioned façade.

“Edna, _please_ think about the consequences of your actions!” Emmett choked, startled to realize the Officer who'd been clanging around with the machine had stopped and gotten to his feet. Not only that, but he had what appeared to be some manner of club-like weapon in hand.

“Me?” demanded Edna. “ _You're_ the one threatening the social order of Hill Valley with your delusions of—heaven knows _what_ you think you have to offer your lowly _assistant_!”

Suddenly, the intercom system hissed to life, this time controlled by the Officer in the gallery.

“Hey, Doc,” Marty's voice crackled, instantly recognizable, “let's get ready to blow this joint.”

“It's drapes for your operation here, Citizen Strickland,” said the Officer with the improvised club, flipping up his visor to reveal Biff Tannen's unmistakable countenance. “Let your husband go!”

“Dammit, it's _curtains_ ,” Emmett heard Marty mutter over the intercom, and he couldn't help smiling in spite of his discomfort. “You'd better listen to him, Edna! We're not messing around.”

“Restrain her, Citizen Tannen!” Emmett commanded as best he could, which wasn't all that authoritatively given he had a tube jammed in the side of his mouth and an unwieldy headpiece strapped to his head. “But use no more force than necessary. You won't find much fight in her.”

“Why, the _nerve_ ,” Edna began, but Emmett watched with undisguised satisfaction as Biff dropped his weapon, pinned her arms behind her back, and frog-marched her toward the door.

“Where should I take her, Your Honor?” Biff asked, shaking Edna to keep her quiet. “One of those holding cells? I think there's still some sedatives kickin' around in one of 'em from when I was—”

“Take her to her own office in the Courthouse and wait for us there,” said Emmett, watching Marty salute from his vantage-point at the control panel and vanish a moment later. “There's an announcement forthcoming. I'd like to make sure she understands the gravity of the situation.”

Emmett didn't have long to wait. Marty, helmet discarded en route, was at his side in seconds.

“Oh _Jesus_ , what's she done,” he muttered, unbuckling Emmett's wrist restraints before attacking the helmet's chin-strap. He threw the heavy thing aside, rushing to untether Emmett's ankles.

“It was an attempt to not only recondition my patterns of behavior, but also rebuild my entire personality from the ground up,” said Emmett, with distaste, sitting up to rub at his wrists.

Marty climbed shakily up from the foot of the table, collapsing in Emmett's arms with a sob.

“I thought it was worse than that,” he admitted, hiccupping against Doc's shoulder. “I thought—”

“Edna's depravity knows no bounds,” said Emmett, holding Marty tight, “but a killer, she's not.”

“Whatever,” Marty sniffed, clinging to Doc more tightly. “Tell it to those strays, why don't you?”

“Marty, _shhh_ ,” Emmett whispered, stroking Marty's hair. “I'm all right. You found me.”

“Everything's gone according to plan, I guess,” Marty replied, sagging in relief. He punched several buttons in sequence on his borrowed prototype, meeting Emmett's questioning gaze.

“Who has the receiving model?” Emmett asked apprehensively. “Is everything as we discussed?”

“One step ahead of you, Doc,” said Martin, eyes glinting with happy tears under the harsh lighting. “The announcement's gonna launch any second now, and you're gonna be just as surprised as—”

The intercom crackled, accompanied by the several screens placed around the room flickering on.

“Attention, Citizens. This is an Omega-1 Priority Alert,” said Goldie Wilson, calmly, shown by the monitors to be seated at his own desk. “Please return to your homes and tune in to Municipal Surveillance Channel 4. Alternatively, you may wish to remain right where you are and listen to the forthcoming announcement in real-time. As newly-elected Mayor of Hill Valley, I swear to you...”

“So I lost,” said Emmett, sighing as Marty rested his head against Emmett's shoulder. “It's over.”

“Your tenure as First Citizen, sure,” replied Marty, shifting until they were settled comfortably together on the table, “but not whatever comes next. There's one thing Edna and I agree on.”

“What do you mean?” Emmett asked dubiously. “That, I can't possibly begin to imagine.”

“You _should_ be thinking about the future,” said Marty. “And I had better be in it.”

“I _do_ have Einstein and the laboratory to worry about,” Emmett agreed. “And an estate that'll seem awfully empty once I've paid Tannen and his spirited daughter to remove Edna's things.”

“I might have the occupational experience you're after,” said Marty, hopefully. “What do you say?”

“You're more than qualified, Mr. McFly,” Emmett replied, grinning as Goldie went on. “Thrill me.”


End file.
